


Balancing Act

by Lindenharp



Series: On the Wings of the Dawn [3]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: AU, Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James and Robbie return from their holiday in Scotland.  It's not easy adjusting to the real world again, but it's necessary, especially if they are to solve the brutal murder of a young woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my story, _If I Speed Away_ , an AU in which James Hathaway has wings. I strongly suggest you read that one first, as it explains the basic premises of this universe, and contains many important details that are referred to in this story.
> 
> I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Wendymr for beta services above and beyond the call, and to UniquePOV for hand-holding, helpful suggestions, and necessary truths.

James studies himself in the ridiculously large mirror hanging opposite his bed. He doesn’t often have visitors to his flat. Any inquisitive souls who peek into his bedroom invariably comment on the mirror, making jokes about ego or sex (or both). They couldn’t be further from the truth. Pride is one of his besetting sins, but in the form of intellectual vanity, not physical. As for lust... there’s been very little of that in his bed, and for years now, only of the solitary sort.

The mirror serves a more important purpose. Every morning before work, James inspects himself, checking that the back of his suit jacket looks smooth and even, with no unsightly bumps from the corset-like binder that keeps his wings hidden under his clothing. Once, when he was still a DC, he’d overslept. In his haste, he’d dressed quickly, and forgot to check himself before leaving the flat. His appearance had sparked countless jokes about Quasimodo and Young Frankenstein’s Igor. He hadn’t been able to use the excuse of scoliosis that got him through school and university, as that condition didn’t appear on his official medical records. He’d made up some bollocks about bad sunburn and needing gauze padding to keep the burn ointment from staining his shirt.

Since that disastrous day, James has never forgotten his morning inspection. Over the years, it’s become an ingrained habit, like cleaning his teeth and straightening his tie. Today, he scrutinises himself with greater care than usual. This is his first day back to work after a two-week holiday on an island so remote and isolated that he’d felt safe leaving his wings unbound for the entire time. He’d even dared fly for the first time in years without fearing that he’d wind up as a front-page photo on some sleazy tabloid. He doesn’t think that a fortnight of freedom is long enough to undo the discipline of years, but he takes the time to be certain.

He makes a point of arriving early. He’s already checked his email and phone messages, but there’ll be a small mountain of paperwork waiting on his desk. When he enters the office, Lewis is there, looking at his own mountain with philosophical resignation. "Good morning, sir."

"Morning, James. Did you have a good holiday? Oi! Set that over there." This last is addressed to DC Richardson, who is toting a large evidence box.

"Very relaxing, thanks," James replies, as if they haven’t spent the past fortnight together. "And you?"

"Not bad. There was a bloke in the next room who liked to play his guitar late at night. Fortunately, I remembered to bring me ear plugs."

James acknowledges the jape with a soft snort. "What’s in the box, sir?"

"A cold case. Thought we might look it over, since we’ve nothing fresher on our plate at the moment."

After an hour of sifting through interview transcripts, James decides that he needs a break. His back and shoulders feel unusually stiff. Getting away from his desk for a while may help. He rises, catching Lewis’s eye. "Going for coffee, sir. Can I bring you anything?"

Lewis dismisses him with a distracted shake of his head. If he's noticed that James is sirring him more often than usual, he doesn't say anything about it. In the months before their visit to Araney, James learned to switch smoothly between work mode and casual mode: working with his governor, DI Lewis, and then relaxing with his best mate, Robbie. It's a balancing act. The past fortnight, though, has knocked him a little off-balance. Just as he kept his wings unbound all the time during their holiday, he kept his tongue unrestrained, teasing Robbie as he would an equal. Until they get back into the normal rhythm of their relationship, James needs to be extra careful about workplace propriety. It would be a nightmare if he slipped up and called his governor 'Robbie' in front of the Chief Super, or worse yet, the junior officers on their team.

Down in the canteen, James gets a few friendly nods and casual greetings. He’s standing at the condiments counter, adding milk to his extra-large coffee when he hears, "Hey, Sarge. Welcome back." He looks up to see DC Gurdip Sohal smiling at him. "Have a good holiday?"

"Yeah, I did, thanks. I was... erm... in Scotland. The Hebrides. Did a bit of hiking. Very relaxing."

Behind him a familiar voice exclaims, "Look out, boys! Mind your Ps and Qs—the Sarge is back."

James turns, suppressing a sigh. "Hooper."

"Couldn’t help overhearing, Sarge. You do any grouse shooting up there?"

 _Isn’t that what you poshos do on holiday?_ James translates. In the past, he would have replied in his most supercilious tone that grouse season didn’t begin until the ‘Glorious Twelfth’ of August. "I prefer watching birds to shooting them," he says mildly. He remembers following a hunting kestrel as it glided in circles over the island. He remembers springing into the air to chase a startled seagull that tried to steal his lunch, to the accompaniment of indignant squawks and Robbie’s howls of laughter. He remembers soaring high above the Atlantic, and seeing a flock of gannets below him dive into the water at alarming speed, like a bombing raid. One after another, and sometimes several at once, they made metre-high fountains of spray as they hit the water at 100 kph.

Hooper is staring at him. Has he got milk foam on his chin or something? Not likely. Gurdip would have said something. James realises that he’s smiling at his memories of Araney Island. "Bird watching," he says, as if confiding an important secret of life. "Entertaining _and_ educational. You should try it some time, Hooper." With a polite nod for the two DCs, he heads back to the office.

How would Hooper react, James wonders, if he told the full truth about his bird-watching? Not that he would ever do something so foolhardy, but for once, the thought fills him with amusement instead of dread.

And so the day continues: paperwork interspersed with welcomes of varying degrees of enthusiasm. Innocent appears to remind Lewis about some forms that are due in two days. She pauses to ask if they enjoyed their holidays.

"Yes, ma’am," they chorus.

"Good. You both look well-rested and ready to put the fear of God into the criminal population of Oxford." With an approving nod, she sweeps out of the room, off to chivvy some other unsuspecting coppers.

After lunch, Dr Hobson pops in. "Welcome back. Look at you, Robbie, all fit and tanned—even the good sergeant is a darker shade of pale. Did you have fun?"

Lewis answers for both of them. "We did, thanks. Nice place. Hathaway’s got some pictures on his phone."

"Including one of him sunbathing," James tells her in a conspiratorial whisper.

"I was not sunbathing! I was resting, and I fell asleep on the lounger."

Hobson chuckles. "Email it to me, James. I need new wallpaper for my computer."

A glare from his governor warns James of the many creative ways that Lewis can make his life a misery.

"I brought you a souvenir, Laura," Lewis says, "but now I’m not sure you deserve it."

"If it’s a tartan tea-cosy or a teddy bear playing the bagpipes, I’ll live with the disappointment."

Lewis removes a plastic carrier bag from his lower desk drawer. And opens it just enough for Hobson to see the contents. James can’t see from this angle, but he knows what it contains: a tasting set of whiskies from Hebridean distilleries.

"You’re forgiven," Hobson says promptly. She looks at her watch. "Sorry, I’ve an inquest at half two."

"Murder?" James asks.

The pathologist shakes her head. "Natural causes—and some family members who are certain the much younger second wife did him in. There will be drama worthy of a soap opera." She gives the carrier bag a meaningful glance. "These may be empty by morning. Thanks again, Robbie. James, good to see you looking so well."

With no active case, they finish up for the day at a civilised hour. James says ‘yes’ to a pint after work, ‘no’ to dinner together. _Balance_. Lewis nods, looking neither disappointed nor relieved. Even best mates need time apart. "See you in the morning, James."

* * *

Morning comes earlier than expected. At 5:03 James’s phone chimes. It’s Lewis, telling him that they’ve caught a case. "I’ll be at yours to pick you up in fifteen minutes."

James switches on his bedside lamp. He reaches for the clothing he'd laid out the night before. He pulls on briefs and trousers, sighs, and reaches for his wing binder. _Holiday's over_ , he reminds himself. _Time to get to work_.

The crime scene is near a rubbish skip behind a florist shop. Dr Hobson is kneeling beside the body. Instinctively, James notes the details: female, mid-twenties. Floral print dress and a pale green jacket. Pink sandals. A pink and green handbag lies a few feet away, its contents scattered across the cobblestones of the alley. A robbery gone wrong?

If the motive is uncertain, the method is unmistakable. Half of the woman’s face is bashed in, presumably by the blood-stained piece of lumber that one of the SOCOs is photographing.

"Morning, Laura. What have we got?"

Hobson looks up. "Hello, Robbie. Sergeant. Blunt force trauma to the head, some time between 7 and 8 last night. I’ll know more when I do the post mortem, but I’m not expecting any surprises. No defensive wounds. No signs of sexual assault. Someone just walked up to Jenna Brimley and hit her in the face with a piece of wood." She holds up a plastic evidence bag containing a pink nylon wallet. "Identification, credit card, and bank card still inside, but no cash. No mobile. Judging by the tan lines on her left wrist, she was in the habit of wearing a watch; I don't know if its absence means it was stolen or if she didn't put it on yesterday."

"Odd place for a robbery," Lewis says. "What was she doing back here?"

"I’m reasonably certain she wasn’t dragged by force. The other possibilities I leave to you."

"Perhaps she worked in the florist’s?" James suggests.

Laura shakes her head. "The owner found her. He’s never seen her before."

Lewis takes another careful look at the dead woman, and something causes his brows to crease. "And it’s an odd sort of robber who leaves jewellery behind." He gestures at the chain hanging beneath the neckline of Jenna Brimley’s bloodspattered dress.

James reaches out a gloved hand and gently lifts the chain. He squints at the tiny locket hanging from it. "Gold... and possibly an antique."

Lewis squints at the locket. "He apparently took her watch. Why leave the necklace behind?"

"It would have been dark here. The security light by the back door of the florist's doesn't reach this far. Either he didn't see it, or something spooked him, and he took what he already had and ran."

"Could be," Lewis replies, but the crease in his forehead says he's not convinced.

* * *

Jenna’s parents are brought down to the morgue to identify their daughter. Dr Hobson arranges the body so that the intact side of the head is facing the viewing window, with the worst injuries covered by a strategically-draped sheet. Petra Brimley gasps and begins to weep. Her husband Nathan turns to embrace her, as much for his own comfort, James thinks, as for his wife’s. When the initial shock is over, he leads them to the interview room where Lewis is waiting to take their statements.

The interview offers nothing surprising and nothing helpful. Jenna was a good girl, not wild like some. Everyone liked her. She got along well with her flatmate and at work. They can’t imagine who would want to hurt her. It’s heartbreaking (or would be if he allowed it). At the end of the interview, a SOCO comes in with a white plastic carrier bag. He hands it to Lewis silently and departs.

Lewis holds out the bag to the Brimleys. "These are your daughter’s belongings. They’ve been checked for fingerprints and suchlike, and we don’t need them any longer for evidence."

Petra takes the bag. She pauses before reaching inside, as if the contents might bite. The first item is the pink and green handbag. Its contents, including the pink wallet, are neatly tucked inside. The next item is enclosed in a small resealable bag. "Oh!" Petra stares, transfixed at the gold locket. "Oh... I never... oh, God!" She bursts into tears. Her husband pulls her close, and she buries her face in his shoulder.

"It belonged to Petra’s gran," Nathan Brimley explains. "We gave it to Jenna for her 18th birthday. Meant a lot to her, being a family heirloom and all. She hardly ever took it off."

"I’d throw it into the river in a heartbeat if that would bring her back to us," Petra says.

Nathan strokes his wife’s head. "I know, my love. I know."

She disentangles herself from her husband's arms and looks again into the white bag.

"Is there something missing, Mrs Brimley?" Lewis asks.

"It's silly..."

"You'd be surprised how often little things can be important," James tells her. "Inspector Lewis once caught a murderer because there was a cup of tea with milk on the kitchen table, and the victim never drank it that way."

"Jenna's watch isn't here."

"What sort of watch did she wear?" Lewis asks.

"It was one of those slappy watches," Petra Brimley replies. "A knock-off she got at Camden Market in London."

Lewis looks at James for a translation. "A digital watch with a removable face. You can buy a set that comes with an assortment of plastic wristbands in different colours."

Petra smiles. "She bought it right after she got her certificate for the office administration course. It came with seven straps, one for each day of the week. Jenna loves—loved bright colours." She blinks rapidly.

"Thank you, Mrs Brimley," James says. Lewis hands her his card, and after the usual assurances, they see themselves out. Within minutes, they're back in the car, en route to Jenna Brimley's flat.

"So... how much does a watch like that go for?" Lewis asks.

"Under twenty pounds, if it's a cheap imitation. And a pawnshop would pay next to nothing." James shrugs. "If she was wearing it, perhaps the killer just fancied the look of it. A gift for his girlfriend?"

Lewis grunts, acknowledging the possibility. The rest of the short drive is spent in silence. Maybe DI Lewis is thinking about the case. Maybe Robbie, the dad, is thinking about his own daughter. Maybe it's a little of both. James stares out the window at the bustling streets of Oxford.

* * *

The interview with Imogen Cooper, Jenna’s flatmate, is like the same song transposed into a different key. Jenna paid her share of the rent on time, did her share of the cleaning. "She was a good person. She had her faults, but she was a good person." She paces the small rectangle of grass. They're conducting the interview in the garden while the SOCOs search the flat.

"What were her faults?" Lewis asks, with just the right note of casual curiosity.

Imogen looks wary. "Nobody’s perfect," she protests.

"Of course not. We’re only trying to get a clear picture of Jenna, the kind of person she was. That may help us to understand how this happened."

James nods in solemn accord with his governor. _Nil nisi bonum_ is not the motto of any halfway-competent detective.

"Sometimes, she was too honest. She said what was on her mind, even if it would have been better to keep her gob shut. I don’t mean that she was nasty-mouthed, just... she didn’t always think before she spoke. She cared about people, about being fair. One time we were in HMV, looking for the new Florence and the Machine, and she saw a big yob jump the queue in front of an old lady. A sensible person would’ve said nothing, or fetched a security guard. Jenna marched right over and told him off." Imogen sighs. "She didn’t shout, didn’t curse, just told him that he ought to be ashamed of pushing ahead of a woman old enough to be his granny. That it was unfair and it made him look weak and stupid."

James winces. "What happened?"

"He called her some names I don’t like to repeat, threw his CDs on the counter, and walked out of the shop. Happy ending, but it could have gone bad, really bad, yeah? Only she didn’t see that."

 _It could have gone very badly indeed_ , James thinks. _Is that what happened last night? Did Jenna speak her mind to the wrong person?_

"Inspector?" One of the SOCOs is hovering by the gate. Lewis beckons him over. The man produces an evidence bag. The contents look like a garish neon rainbow. Plastic watch straps. There are six of them.

What did the mother say? A set of seven? "Imogen, do you know which strap is missing?"

She frowns at the bag. "There ought to be a green one."

"Thanks." That fits. Jenna was wearing a green and pink outfit, and obviously liked her accessories to be colour-coordinated.

Lewis asks about their social life. Were they friends as well as flatmates?

They went to clubs together sometimes. No, not lately, because Imogen has a new boyfriend, and Jenna isn’t—wasn’t—seeing anyone. Not since June, when she broke up with Fish.

"Fish?" James asks.

"His real name is Tim, but everyone calls him Fish. I don’t know why. Some kind of joke." Imogen’s eyes widen. "You don’t think that Fish did anything, do you? He seemed like a decent bloke, the few times I met him. And the break-up was one of those mutual things. I think." Imogen doesn’t know Tim’s surname, but she’s able to give a good description of him, as well as the name of the coffee shop where he works.

Tim Herring ("call me Fish") is a decent bloke in James’s professional estimation, and he can tell that his governor agrees. His account of the break-up agrees with Imogen’s: he and Jenna just didn’t work out. He was at the coffee shop from 4:00 to midnight. CCTV will confirm that. No, he can’t think of anyone who disliked Jenna. He seems genuinely distraught over the murder.

Jenna’s place of employment is on the Cowley Road, wedged between a pawnbroker and a kebab shop. The foot-high lettering on the bright yellow awning says Excelsior Letting Agency (Roger Ebeling, Harry Bingham, proprietors). "A banner with the strange device," James murmurs. He doesn’t intend to be overheard, but Lewis gives him a sidelong glance.

"You should go into business for yourself," Lewis says mildly. "James Hathaway, poetry for all occasions. Available for birthday parties, weddings, and church fetes." He looks up again at the awning. "Posh name like that, you’d think they’d be letting mansions, not cheap flats."

"Perhaps they aspire to mansions. A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?"

"I don’t imagine that letting agents would care for heaven. The mansions up there are supposed to be free, aren’t they?"

A dozen different replies spring into James’s mind, and he ruthlessly suppresses them all. Lewis isn’t as snappish as he used to be about religion, but it’s a topic best avoided. Still, he can’t help crafting an advertisement for a celestial dwelling-place. _‘Mansion incorruptible... all mod cons... short commute to Pearly Gates....’_

Inside the office, a young woman with pink-streaked hair and five earrings sits behind the reception desk, reading a thick book. The telephone rings and she snatches up the receiver. "Excelsior Letting, we provide the best for less, Lucy speaking, how may I assist you?" The conversation is a short one. "I’m terribly sorry, but Mr Bingham and Mr Ebeling are not available just now. May I take a message?" She scribbles something on a slip of paper, then returns to her book.

Lewis walks up to the desk. "Excuse me. We need to talk to the proprietors."

"They’re not—" she begins.

Men’s voices echo through the half-open door of the back office.

"I told you, we should have closed!" the first man growls.

"What good would that do?" The second voice is higher pitched, with a faint trace of Yorkshire in the vowels. "It’s a sad thing, yeah, but sad things happen all the time. No one is going to notice or care who’s sitting at the desk."

Lewis flashes his warrant card at the girl. "Detective Inspector Lewis, Detective Sergeant Hathaway. And you are?"

"Lucy Dunne."

His tone is almost apologetic. "I’m afraid we really do need to speak to them."

The receptionist’s face reddens. "They told me to say they were out."

James summons up a sympathetic smile. "It’s hard being a temp, isn’t it? Like having to write an essay on a book you’ve only got halfway through." He nods at the book. Even upside down, he knows Latin when he sees it. "You’re reading Classics?"

"Classics and English. I’ve got an essay on Cicero due Thursday, but Uncle Roger phoned me and said it was an emergency, and could I please fill in today."

"Roger Ebeling is your uncle?" Lewis asks.

"Not a real uncle, but he was at school with my dad, and I’ve known him forever." Her parents and younger brother are in Canada for a year, she explains. Her dad, a petroleum engineer, is on assignment in the Athabasca oil sands. Uncle Roger is keeping an eye on her. Lucy rolls her eyes. She’s eighteen: fearless and immortal. "But he takes me out for lunch sometimes, and dinner most Sundays at his house. Aunt Louise is a fantastic cook."

Lewis bends over the desk, looking rather like a kindly uncle himself. "Lucy, what did Uncle Roger tell you about this emergency?"

"He said that Jenna—the office assistant—had some kind of accident, and could I please come in for a day or two."

"What kind of accident?"

Lucy frowns. "He didn’t actually say... only that something terrible had happened, and Jenna was dead. I thought she was hit by a car or something like that." She looks from one to the other. They don’t answer her unspoken question.

"Have you ever met Jenna?" James asks.

"I’ve seen her lots of times when I came to visit Uncle Roger, but I don’t—didn’t—really know her. She was older than me." Seven years older. At eighteen, that’s nearly half a lifetime.

They ask a few more questions, but it’s clear that Lucy has nothing useful to offer. Lewis hands her one of his cards. "If you think of anything, please phone me. And now, I think we need to speak to the gentlemen in charge. Don’t bother to announce us." James falls into step behind his governor as Lewis heads towards the back office.

James’s old governor, DI Knox, liked to compare people to animals, by way of summing up their character. "That one’s our thief, Jimmy. Look at him—a real ferret, he is." James thought the whole idea was utter bollocks. Having a healthy sense of self-preservation, he never shared that thought with his governor. Looking at the two men in the back office of Excelsior Letting, he knows immediately that DI Knox would have labelled them a mastiff and a fox.

It takes them a moment to notice they’re not alone. "Who the hell are you?" the fox demands. This is the one with the Yorkshire accent. He’s lean and wiry, and his ginger hair is mixed with silver.

"Roger!" the mastiff protests. "There’s no call to be rude." He turns towards the visitors. His broad, pink face is solemn, his pale eyes carefully sincere. "I’m sorry, but we’re not seeing new clients today. There’s been a death—"

"That’s just what we’ve come to speak to you about." Lewis introduces himself and his sergeant.

The mastiff is Harry Bingham; the fox is Roger Ebeling. They take turns answering Lewis’s questions, switching back and forth smoothly. They hired Jenna seven months ago. She’d left school with a handful of GCSEs, and worked as a shop girl while taking a part-time office administration course. They’d hired her fresh from the business college. She was enthusiastic, hard-working, got on well with the clients. This is a terrible thing. Terrible. Who could do that to a nice young girl?

They’ll have to hire a new office manager promptly, Ebeling says.

Bingham protests. "Christ, Roger, she’s not even in her grave yet. Your girl can get by for a week or so."

"No, she can’t. The lass is taking a demanding course, and that’s got to be her first priority. Any road, she’s not trained for this job."

"If she can read Greek and Latin, she can answer the phone and file paperwork."

"We’ll get a temp from an agency," Ebeling announces.

"But—"

Lewis interrupts. "Gentlemen, before you hire a replacement for Jenna Brimley, do you suppose we could finish discussing her murder?" The agents look abashed, like two schoolboys called into the Head’s office. They mumble apologies, which Lewis waves away with a flick of his right hand. "What time did Jenna leave work yesterday?"

Bingham looks blank. "I was in the field with clients all afternoon."

"She left about 5:30," Ebeling offers. "I was in the office until 6:00."

How did Jenna seem these last few days? Was she worried about anything? Had anyone been bothering her? Did her ex-boyfriend ever come by?

The answers are all negative. No problems, no visitors, no clues.

"And where were you between 7:00 and 8:00 last night?" Lewis asks Ebeling.

"I was having dinner at the Golden Swan."

James doesn’t need the sidelong glance from his governor to know that it’s his turn. "Can anyone testify to that?"

"Several people. It was my sister-in-law's birthday. My wife was there, of course, and her mother, and two of Janet's friends." Ebeling frowns at him. "Why?"

James ignores him. "And you, Mr. Bingham?"

"I’m not certain. I left the office at 6:00. Went to the Badger for a couple of pints, got some Chinese takeaway and ate it at home."

"Was anyone with you?"

"No. I live alone. Why all these questions? You don’t seriously think—"

"Just routine," James assures him.

The rest of the questions are routine, and so are the answers. When it’s clear that the two partners have nothing more to say, they take their leave.

They discuss the case over a hasty lunch. "I feel as if I’m missing something," James says.

"It’s the beginning of the case," Lewis replies. "We’re always missing something at this point, unless the criminal’s a complete idiot. It could be a robbery gone wrong."

"You don’t believe that any more than I do."

Lewis pulls a face. "No, but it’s only a feeling in my gut. Some evidence would be nice." As if in response, his mobile chimes for an incoming text. He looks at it briefly. "Dr Hobson would like to see us at our earliest convenience."

James downs the rest of his iced latte in one gulp. "Then we shouldn't keep the good doctor waiting."


	2. Chapter 2

They're the ones who are kept waiting while Dr Hobson finishes weighing someone's liver. When she's finished, and has stripped off her gloves, she strides over to them. "Robbie, I found something odd on Jenna Brimley's clothing. Do you remember that little gold locket she was wearing?" Lewis nods. "There's a corresponding bloodstain on her dress—on the _inside_ of her dress."  


James exchanges startled glances with his governor. Jenna was found with her locket tucked inside the dress. If it picked up enough blood to leave a stain, it must have been hanging outside during the attack. 

Lewis muses aloud, "Could she have done it herself? Trying to protect it?" 

"No, she couldn't have done," Hobson replies promptly. "The first blow may or may not have killed her, but it would have knocked her out. Moving the locket was done fairly shortly after death, or the blood wouldn't have been liquid enough to be absorbed by the fabric of the dress." 

"So... most likely the killer. Why on Earth would he do that?" 

"Sorry, Robbie, not my remit. I just cut up the bodies; dissecting minds and motives is what you boys get paid for." 

Lewis nods. "Ta, Laura." As he turns to go, James falls into step behind him. 

Back in the office, they discuss the oddity of the crime scene. "He took whatever cash was in her purse, but left the credit card," James says. 

"Not that unusual. Credit cards, bank cards—too many chances of getting caught, especially if you're a man trying to use a woman's card." 

"True, but why take the watch? It's plastic. He must've seen that it wasn't worth much." 

"He fancied it, or wanted it as a gift for someone. No, it's the locket that troubles me. I'm trying to think of reasons for him to leave it behind. Perhaps he thought it was too distinctive to pawn safely." 

"Or the blood freaked him out," James suggests. "Impulsive act of violence, maybe even his first time, and he can't bear to touch something that's covered in his victim's blood." 

"Only he did touch it. Why? Why hide it?" 

"If he didn't want to take the locket but still needed this to look like a random mugging, hiding it under the clothing might have deceived us. It was dark in the alley and the mugger managed to overlook the most valuable possession Jenna had on her. If Dr Hobson hadn't spotted the matching bloodstain inside the dress, we might have come to that conclusion." 

Lewis nods thoughtfully. 

* * *

Their next stop is Lyford Business College, where Jenna took her office admin course. Three of her lecturers are available, but none of them know anything helpful. They remember her as a hardworking student, cheerful in temperament, average in ability. After some earnest discussion (and a wave of the goriest crime scene photo), the assistant registration clerk agrees to provide them with a list of Jenna's classmates, including last-known contact information.

The rest of the afternoon is taken up by computer searches and endless telephone calls. It’s as tedious as it is necessary. James allows himself a faint sigh of relief at 5:30 when Lewis switches off his own computer. 

"Takeaway at mine?" Lewis asks. 

James agrees instantly. Less than an hour later, they’re sat at Lewis’s kitchen table looking at the remnants of a large pizza and four bottles of beer (two of them empty). James raises his bottle. "What neat repast shall feast us?" 

"Dunno how neat it is," Lewis says, looking at the traces of grease and sauce on the table, "but that’s a proper feast in my book. Let’s see what’s on the telly, eh?" He gestures towards the lounge. As they’re about to sit on the sofa, Lewis cocks his head. "Why don’t you get comfortable?" 

"Erm... I am comfortable." 

"Properly comfortable. You know." Lewis holds his loosely-fisted hands in front of his breastbone and moves them apart. He looks as though he’s pretending to take off a jacket, but James removed his jacket and tie a minute after walking into the flat. 

"Robbie, if we’re playing charades, I’m afraid I’ll need a better clue than that." 

"Why don’t you take the corset off?" Lewis asks. "You always do when we’re at yours." He doesn’t add, _but never when we’re at mine_. It’s in the tilt of his head and the slight arch of his eyebrows. 

For years, James has only unbound his wings in the privacy—the safety—of his own flat. (The two weeks on Araney don’t count. Araney was like another world, another reality.) This is Lewis’s flat, he reminds himself, and no one is here except Lewis, whom he trusts more than he has trusted anyone else in his adult life. And yet... "I haven’t got a t-shirt with me," he says, meaning one with slits cut in it to accommodate his wings. 

"I think I can resist swooning at the sight of you going topless," Robbie says mildly. Before James can come up with a reply, his governor holds up a finger in a ‘one moment’ gesture, and disappears into his bedroom. He returns carrying a grey t-shirt with the sharp creases of a garment that’s never been worn. "Bought a stack of these at Poundland, and didn’t find out until too late that this one was two sizes too small." He hands the shirt to James, and with his other hand, offers a pair of scissors. 

There’s only one reply that he can make now. "Thanks." Once the t-shirt has been cut open, James unbuttons his shirt, and drapes it over the chair-back where his jacket is hanging. He pulls at the straps of his binder. The ripping sound of the velcro closure coming apart sounds much louder than usual. It almost drowns out the fast thump of his heartbeat. His nervousness is irrational, he knows. The door is locked, the curtains are drawn, and there are no paparazzi hiding in the loo. So why do the muscles of his neck feel as rigid and twisted as wrought iron? Why is his hindbrain whispering that he’s trapped? 

_Go away_ , he tells the shapeless shadows lurking in the corners of his mind. _I’m in a safe place. I’m with my friend Robbie, and we are going to have a pleasant, normal evening_. They retreat, but somewhere in the distance a mocking voice retorts, _What do you know about ‘normal’?_ He’s not sure if the voice sounds like his father’s or his own. He’s not sure which possibility bothers him more. James picks up the t-shirt, pulling it over his head. 

Robbie looks up from his copy of Radio Times. "Better, yeah? I was starting to wonder if you’d got yourself a naughty tattoo, or maybe dyed your feathers chartreuse." 

James chuckles, as he was meant to, and some of the tightness in his neck fades. "No tattoos, naughty or otherwise. And chartreuse really isn’t my colour." 

Robbie points the remote at the television, which blinks on to reveal a Sherlock Holmes episode in media res. Holmes and Watson are in their gas-lit sitting room as a client tromps up the stairs. It could be any one of dozens of episodes. Then the client enters. He’s wearing a black cape, a pleated white shirt with heavy black braidwork and a domino mask. _Right. A Scandal in Bohemia._

"Not much of a disguise, that," Robbie says. "Those fancy-dress masks don’t cover much of the face. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out who you’re looking at." 

"True. And he’d attract less attention in Victorian London if he wore English-style clothing." 

At the ad break, Robbie tells a story from his early police career in Newcastle. "I was a green constable, walking a beat, and the assistant from a corner shop comes running out to tell me she’s been robbed. I ask for a description, and all she can tell me is white, average height, and probably in his twenties, judging from the voice. Can’t describe the hair or face, ‘cause the lad pulled a balaclava over his head before he came in." 

"A classic technique." 

"Yeah, and it might’ve worked, only the victim tells me that the git was wearing a pair of tight-fitting bicycle shorts and a orange t-shirt with some Japanese cartoon character on it. I found him five minutes later at a pub two streets over, treating his mates to a round. Easiest arrest I ever made." He chuckles at the memory, then asks suddenly, " _Could_ you colour your feathers?" 

James blinks at the non sequitur. "Erm... no. They wouldn’t absorb the dye. Why?" 

Robbie frowns. "You sure about that? Just before Easter I saw a something on the news about daft Americans who dye baby chicks all sorts of colours." 

"Chicks have down, not proper feathers. Down will absorb water and water-based dyes. Fully-developed feathers are water-resistant because they contain natural oils." 

"What about oil-based dyes? Would those work?" 

"I don’t know. Possibly, but most of them are toxic. Why?" 

Robbie hesitates. "You told me that one reason you won’t fly around here is because you haven’t got ‘protective colouration’. Mind, 

I’ve seen you flying at night, and you’re not as easy to spot as you think. If you had dark wings..." 

"No. Haven’t I made it clear? I won’t fly anywhere near Oxford, regardless of the colour of my wings. It’s not safe." 

"But—" 

"Why does it matter so much to you?" James demands. He shouldn’t let it disturb him so much. Robbie means well. He starts marshalling arguments against all of Robbie’s possible replies, from accusations of cowardice to ‘it’s who you’re meant to be’. 

"It makes you happy," Robbie says simply. 

Fuck. Trust Robbie to make an argument he can't be angry about. "I can't." 

"Yes, you can. You choose not to do it, an' that's your right, but sometimes I wonder what that choice is costing you." 

James is silent. 

"And another thing... what's the worst that could happen, really?" Robbie asks. 

He doesn't have to pause and think about it. "The worst? Someone could take a recognisable picture of me and post it on the Internet. And it would _never_ go away." 

Robbie purses his lips, clearly trying to choose the right words. "I can see that would be aggravating. And for a while you'd be like one of those footballers or actors who can't go into Sainsburys without people asking them for autographs. But then it would go away, especially since there's nothing to see. You don't do your shopping like this—" He gestures at James's unbound wings. 

How can he possibly make Robbie understand? He's a fair and decent man, but he's ordinary, in the best sense of the word. Normal, which James can never be. "Do you remember me telling you about the Christmas pageants at Crevecoeur when I was a child?" 

"They made you be an angel, and you didn't like having to wear a long, white dress," Robbie replies with a smile. 

He nods. "There was always a big audience in the chapel. Most of the tenants, except for those who were on duty. The Family sat in the front pew with Father Thirlwell. Lots of people, but never any outsiders." He rubs a hand across his face. "Robbie, if we're going to have this conversation, I need something stronger than beer." 

Robbie's eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn't quibble. He goes into the kitchen and returns with a bottle and two glasses. 

James looks at the bottle, and his own eyebrows rise. It's 14-year-old Oban single malt whisky, a souvenir of their holiday in Scotland. 

After Robbie has poured two fingers of whisky for each of them, he raises his glass. "Cheers." 

James echoes him and takes his first sip, letting it linger on the tongue. It's wonderful stuff, but he half-wishes for a bottle of something cheap that he could toss back without feeling crass. "The year I turned seven, Augustus requested a repeat performance at the Hall, for the Family and their guests. He did a lot of entertaining over the Christmas holidays, and his guests were usually foreign investors in the family bank. He wanted to offer them a charming English country Christmas." 

"Roast turkey, a flaming pudding on a silver platter, and boughs of holly over every window?" 

"And Christmas crackers from Harrods, £100 per box." 

"Bloody hell! I thought Val was extravagant the year she bought ours from Marks an' Sparks," Robbie mutters. "A hundred quid for a box of crackers?" 

"That was in the mid-80s. I imagine they're more expensive now." James takes another swallow of whisky. "After coffee and brandy, Augustus took his guests on a tour of his art collection. You only saw it when the best pieces had already been sold off—the Fragonard, the Matisses, the Constable watercolours, and a small bronze of a horse by Degas. Augustus had a passion for beautiful things, and he loved to show them off." 

"I'll bet he did." 

"When the tour was over, the guests were ushered into the Blue Drawing Room to be entertained by another charming holiday custom: the Christmas pageant. It allowed Augustus to play benevolent lord of the manor, it amused his guests, and it let him show off the rarest work of art in his collection." 

"Don't talk about yourself like that, man." 

He shrugs. "It's true, or it was back then, not that I understood that until I was ten or eleven." 

Robbie's face has turned to stone. "An' then what happened?" 

He sighs. There wasn't a sudden epiphany. It was a series of individual moments, of covetous gazes and false smiles and half-heard whispers. _"I'd give a thousand pounds to see him fly." "Can't I just touch the feathers?" "..a photo series entitled Icarus Rising. Four, five days, at most. You can have one of your security people bring him down to my studio in London."_ None of those things ever happened, he assures Robbie. 

"So he had that much decency, at least." 

James rises and begins to pace the room. "The National Gallery did a special exhibit of Constable landscapes in 1989. They asked Augustus if he'd allow them to borrow 'Hayfield at Dawn' for two months. Naturally, they'd pay for transport, insurance, and so forth. He said no." 

"I'd think he'd be pleased. Isn't it an honour to have a big famous museum ask for a loan of a painting? And to have thousands of people admiring it? Seems to me that's something to boast about." 

"He didn't want any of his possessions in someone else's hands, even temporarily. I knew I was in no danger of being whisked away." James finishes off his drink. "It was the staring that bothered me." 

"Understandable, 'specially since you were a kid." Robbie studies James's face and pours out another two fingers of whisky. 

"When I was at university, I went down to London to attend a concert. I had some time to kill beforehand, and I wandered into an antique shop. There was a vintage guitar in the front window that I wanted a closer look at, even though I was certain I couldn't afford it." 

He reseats himself on the sofa and stares into the whisky. It's the colour of amber. There'd been amber jewelry in the shop... 

>   
> _A man was stooped over the counter, studying a velvet tray with several necklaces which ranged in colour from pale butter to dark honey. The man had turned to look at James. He was in his mid-sixties, well-dressed in a conservative style that screamed 'old money' to those who knew what to look for. "Don't I know you?"  
> _
> 
> _James shook his head. He'd never seen this man before._
> 
> _"You look familiar... I'd swear..." The man tilted his head, sifting through memories, then snapped his fingers. "Got it! It's been years, but I never forget a face. You're Mortmaigne's angel."_
> 
> _There was a lump the size of the Albert Memorial in his belly, but he managed to keep his face impassive. "I have no idea what you're talking about."_
> 
> _The man smiled, tapping his forefinger against his lips. "I understand the importance of confidentiality."_
> 
> _"I have no idea what you're talking about," James repeated._
> 
> _"And yet you haven't walked away." The man studied James carefully, evaluating his faded t-shirt, shabby jeans and discoloured trainers. "You haven't been at Crevecoeur for some time now. Whoever your current protector is, I could do much better by you than this," he said scornfully. "Or is it protectress? Not that it matters to me. My interests are purely aesthetic. I wouldn't interfere with your indulgences, as long as you kept them discreet."_
> 
> _"I'm at university," James told him_. I'm a person. I have a life. I have plans. 
> 
> _The man smiled. "Excellent. Then you'll be able to converse intelligently with my guests."_

"Bloody buggering hell," Robbie growls. "I wish I'd been there. I'd've arrested the old sod—" 

"For what? I was an adult, and he wasn't proposing anything illegal. All he was doing was looking at me as if I were one of the necklaces on the counter, and he was trying to decide how much he was willing to spend." He takes a gulp of whisky and sets the glass down with a loud thunk. "That's the worst than can happen, Robbie—spending every day wondering if the next person who comes along is going to look at me as that man did. As something ornamental and valuable and not quite human." He rubs a hand across his face and looks at one of the few people who never makes him feel that way. 

There's no pity in Robbie's gaze, only the smouldering remnants of anger on his behalf. "Dunno about you, but I need some air. Why don't you get dressed? We'll go for a walk, an' you can have a ciggy." 

James nods in silent agreement. He pulls off the t-shirt, then pulls it back over his head again once the binder is in place. They walk in aimless silence for ten minutes or more. 

"I suppose it's just as well that we can't arrest people for being right wankers," Robbie says at last. 

"Oh?" 

"We'd never get the rest of our work done." 

James lets out a soft laugh. "Yeah." 

Robbie nods. "Let's head back and get the sofa-bed sorted for you." Once they're safely inside the flat, Robbie adds, "I'll just say this one last thing. I'm sorry I pushed you. You've got your reasons, and it's not for me to decide if they're right or not. If you ever decide that you do want try flying again, I'll be glad to do whatever I can to help. Be a lookout or whatever. Drive to somewhere in Wales, maybe, over a weekend. You let me know, and I'll be there. Understand?" 

"Yeah." A minute later, he adds, "Thanks." He hopes that Robbie can hear all that one word means. 

Lewis says only, "I'm off to bed, and you ought to be, too. We'll both need clear heads tomorrow." 

* * *

The next day, James's head is anything but clear. He can't blame it on the whisky. He's sat at his desk, scowling at his computer. More names and lists, checks and cross-checks. He could grumble softly to himself about his governor's absence, except that Lewis is in a senior-officers-only meeting with Innocent. Compared to that, data crunching is a veritable paradise. When his desk phone rings, he grabs the receiver like a drowning man reaching for a rope.

It's the desk sergeant. "Hathaway, there's a young lady here who'd like to speak to DI Lewis. He's in that meeting, yeah?" 

"Did she give her name?" 

"Nope. Got hair like candy-floss and enough earrings to open her own shop, if that helps you at all." 

"I'll be right down." James locks his computer and heads for the reception desk. He spots Lucy Dunne immediately, and not just because of the pink hair. She's standing by herself, looking as though she's trying to melt into the wall. 

"Hullo, Lucy. I'm afraid that Inspector Lewis isn't available just now. What can I do for you?" 

She studies the floor, then meets his eyes. "I wanted to tell him something. Can we go somewhere else?" 

Not an interview room. If she's this tense in the lobby, a small, windowless room will not help. And there's no way he'll take her up to the office, past the incident room with its murder board covered with photos. "Sure. Would you mind if we went outside?" He dips a hand into his jacket pocket and flashes a packet of cigarettes. No need to mention that he had a smoking break not twenty minutes ago. 

"Okay." Lucy smiles, clearly pleased to be a co-conspirator, and follows him outside. James leads her to a quiet spot on the west side of the car park. There's a concrete planter with a wide ledge that serves as a makeshift bench. It's in full view of the main entrance and at least one CCTV camera. Just in case. 

Lucy seems calmer, now that they're outside the nick, but she isn't rushing to tell him what's on her mind. Maybe it's because his demeanor doesn't exude 'kindly uncle' as Lewis's does. Perhaps 'older brother' will work. 

He pulls out a fag and lights up. "How did you get on with Cicero?" 

"Cicero? Oh, the essay. I did all right." She pulls a face. "He's a bit tedious." 

James nods as solemnly as he can. "There are livelier Roman authors." And some that are positively lewd, though he's not about to say so. 

"We're on to Pliny next." 

"Elder or Younger?" 

"Elder. The Natural History." 

"Lots of fun stuff in there. I rather liked his description of the tribe of one-legged people who hop everywhere they go, and use their enormous feet as umbrellas while they sleep." 

As he'd hoped, Lucy laughs. "And the people with dog's heads, and the ones with their feet on backwards, and others without mouths who couldn't eat food and lived by smelling flowers. Our Latin master at school told us about those. But he pointed out that people today believe some crazy things, and it's not as if Pliny could jump on the next plane to India or wherever. A lot of what he wrote was very well researched. Did you know that he was probably the first scientist to write a factual description of a winged person?" 

James manages not to flinch. _She doesn't know._ "Really?" 

"Yeah. Of course, they didn't know much about genetics then, so he wrote some real tosh about pregnant women being scared by eagles, or eating too many eggs, but he got a lot right. Wing structure and bone density, and so forth." 

"It's, erm... been a few years since I've read Pliny," James says, and lets the silence hang between them. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to babble like that. I've never had anything to do with the police before, other than watching 'The Bill'. And this thing with Jenna... _murder_ , for God's sake—it's horrible. It's unreal. How can someone I know be murdered?" 

James has no real answers and he won't offer platitudes. Gently, he asks, "What did you come here to tell us?" 

"It's probably nothing," she begins, and fiddles with the braided hemp strap of her shoulder bag. "I went into the agency last week to meet Uncle Roger for lunch, only he was busy with a phone call. While I was waiting, Jenna asked me if I trusted Uncle Roger—if I _really_ trusted him. Of course I said yes, but when I asked why, she just muttered something. And then Uncle Roger finished his call and we went out... and I forgot all about it. Until today." 

"Do you have any idea what was on her mind?" 

She gives a helpless shake of her head. Pink wisps of hair lift and flutter in the breeze. "I'm just guessing that maybe someone connected to the agency was bothering her, and she was thinking about complaining to Uncle Roger." 

"Someone? A client?" 

"I don't know. A client, a vendor, a landlord... I don't know." 

James asks more questions. Had Jenna ever complained about harassment before? Had Lucy ever been harassed in the office? Had she told Uncle Roger what Jenna said? Told anyone?" The answers come back as a series of 'no's. James thanks Lucy for her cooperation and offers her his card. "If you remember anything else, please give one of us a call." He rises when she does and remains standing, thinking about life and death and people who subsist only on scents, while the smoke from his neglected cigarette spirals up into the summer sky.


	3. Chapter 3

Lewis is waiting for him when he returns to the office. "Did Lucy Dunne have anything useful to tell you?"

"How did—Oh, you spoke to the desk sergeant." 

"No, I didn't. Hooper just happened to be passing by when I came out of the meeting. He informed me that if I was looking for my bagman, I should look outside, because he was in the car park, chatting up a pink-haired tart nearly half his age." 

James knows that the scowl on his governor's face is meant for Hooper. No doubt Lewis had some things to say about appropriate language. Hooper is lucky that he didn't make his comment in front of Innocent. James says dryly, "You've caught me, sir. I was hoping for a quick shag in the back seat of my car, but she had to get to her English tutorial." Lewis snorts. "As for useful information... I'll let you decide." He recounts his conversation with Lucy. 

"Why did she want to talk to Roger Eberling?" Lewis wonders aloud. 

"Whatever problem was bothering her, it had to do with the agency." 

"Yeah, but why Roger? It's not because he's easier to talk to. The man could give a hedgehog lessons in being prickly." 

"She wanted to know if Roger was trustworthy," James says slowly. "So... whatever she wanted to discuss was confidential and potentially sensitive. And she didn't want to discuss it with Harry Bingham—" 

"Because Harry was the problem," Lewis concludes. "What sort of problem was he?" 

"The most obvious possibility is sexual harassment." 

Lewis shakes his head. "Somehow, that doesn't feel right." 

"You don't think he'd do that?" James asks. 

"I've no idea, one way or the other. What I do think is that Jenna wasn't the kind of girl to keep quiet for over a week and debate whether to report the harassment to her other boss. I think she'd have told Harry off, right there on the spot, and he've been lucky not to wind up in A&E with a stapler-shaped bruise on his jaw." 

He remembers the flatmate's account of Jenna's encounter with the yob in HMV. That brash, outspoken young woman would not suffer harassment in brooding silence. "I think that's a quite likely outcome. And if he was harassing some of the agency's female clients and Jenna found out, I don't think she'd be slow about reporting it to someone." Lewis gestures for him to continue. "The most obvious possibility is that she suspected Harry of financial misdeeds... and didn't know if Roger was involved." 

Lewis gives him a nod of approval. "We haven't got highwaymen with pistols in the twenty-first century, but God help us, we've got second-hand car salesmen, cowboy builders, and letting agents to empty our wallets." 

A look at Excelsior's financial records might be illuminating, but there's no way they'd be granted a warrant based on pure speculation. "What now?" 

"Is there any way you can go on the computer and get a list of people who've let flats from Bingham? Any legal way," Lewis adds. 

"I've got a few ideas, but I'd like to consult with Gurdip, if that's all right." 

Lewis dismisses him with a careless wave of his hand. 

An hour later, James returns to the office, followed by Gurdip. At James's nod, the DC lays a sheaf of computer printouts on their governor's desk. 

"What's this?" 

"Individuals living in flats let by Harry Bingham," Gurdip says. "We used Google Cache to retrieve advertisements which listed him as agent, then cross-referenced those addresses with telephone directories, vehicle registration and other databases." 

Lewis smiles. "Good work, both of you. Hathaway, with me." 

* * *

One of Gurdip's printouts is sorted by address, making it easy to find the nearest flat on the list. Ahmed Sharif stares blankly at their warrant cards and shakes his head slowly. "No English."

This isn't much of a surprise. A lot of Bingham's tenants are on the Foreign Nationals Registry. "We could come back with an interpreter," James suggests. 

"We could, but I don't think it's worth the trouble. Doesn't your handy list say that Mr. Sharif lives alone?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Then I'd like to hear his explanation for this." Lewis takes a few steps forward and points to the table where Mr Sharif was evidently eating dinner when they arrived. Next to the plate of rice and lentils and stewed aubergine is a copy of _The British Journal of Applied Mathematics._ "You're not in trouble yet, Mr Sharif, but lying to the police is a good way of getting there." 

Mr Sharif—Dr Sharif, actually—recovers his English with amazing speed. He lost his position as a university professor in his home country due to an unfortunate political situation that he'd rather not discuss, and emigrated to the UK for 'personal reasons'. (Reasons of health, James reckons.) He's hoping to find a teaching position in his field. For now, he's scraping by on the pittance that a part-time research assistant earns. 

Once he realises that the police are interested in Harry Bingham, not him, he's eager to talk. Unfortunately, he has no dark secrets to reveal. Mr Bingham has been very proper, very professional. No, he hasn't made threats or asked for any special favours. In fact, he's been kind. "He reduced the entrance fee for the flat, because he knew I did not have much money." 

"Entrance fee? You mean the deposit? First month's rent?" 

"No, the entrance fee, to move in. For the cleaning and the official inspection." Dr Sharif doesn't seem to notice the two detectives exchanging _aha!_ glances as he continues. "It was to be one hundred pounds, but in his kindness, he made it seventy-five." 

James chooses his question carefully. "Did he give you a receipt for this fee, Doctor?" 

Ahmed Sharif furrows his brow. "I do not think so... is it important?" 

Lewis waves his hand in a vague gesture that could mean anything or nothing. "Thank you, Dr Sharif. We appreciate your cooperation." 

Back in the car, they exchange more than glances. "It's sickening," Lewis growls. 

"It is, but not illegal, alas. I suppose there might be something in the way of a minor fraud charge." 

"For which he'd get a slap on the wrist. Maybe a small fine." Lewis presses his lips into a thin line. "Where's the next flat?" 

At the next flat, 'No English' is the truth. Lewis's scraps of Spanish from long-ago holidays are limited to asking for ice-cream, clean towels, and the nearest public loo. James rediscovers that fluency in Latin is of very little use in understanding one of her daughter languages, especially when it's being spoken rapidly and with some kind of heavy regional accent. Eventually, a neighbour from down the hall turns up to interpret—and to provide additional evidence. 

Entrance fees. Holding fees. Reference check fees. Filing fees. As they go down the list of names, the list of invented fees grows longer. Not all of the victims are foreign nationals, but they all share the same vulnerabilities: too trusting, too ignorant of the rules of the game. 

"It's sickening," James says, echoing Lewis's words back to him, "but there are other letting agents who've done the same or worse, and never spent a day in prison. Is keeping this hidden worth murdering someone? I know that people have murdered for far less provocation, but do you really think Bingham would? He hasn't got a record for any kind of violence. A few speeding tickets and a night in the cells for drunk and disorderly when he was 23." 

"What kind of disorderly?" 

"Singing," James says blandly. "Very loud and off-key. At two in the morning, in front of the Martyrs Memorial. He told the arresting officer that they were much too sober, and wanted cheering up." 

Lewis waves that aside. "One more, then we're calling it quits for the day." 

Elisha Kipchumba doesn't look surprised to see them. He looks pleased, James decides, as if something has finally gone right after a long, annoying day. After offering tea, he gets right to the point. "You are here because of Miss Brimley, yes?" 

"You're very well informed, Mr Kipchumba," Lewis replies. "I suppose you read about it in the papers?" 

Kipchumba frowns. "I don't understand. Read about what? Are you saying that Miss Brimley did not ask you to come?" 

He doesn't know. "Not directly," James says. "Why don't you start from the beginning?" 

He does just that. The essence of the story is that Kipchumba was disturbed by multiple increases in his rent. He called the agency to complain. Harry Bingham was out of town for a week's holiday, so he talked to Jenna. "She was most kind," Kipchumba tells them. 

Lewis looks puzzled. "Why didn't you just phone your landlord?" 

"I do not know who that is." 

"How can you not know? Isn't it on your lease?" 

It's not. When Kipchumba retrieves his copy of the lease, James can see that it only identifies Harry Bingham as the 'owner's representative'. Kipchumba isn't willing to lend the lease, even to the police, but he allows James to photograph it with his phone camera. 

It takes a few minutes to thank Elisha Kipchumba, to tell him the brief public version of Jenna's death, and to ask him to keep silent about the investigation. Once they're back in the car, they exchange wide-eyed stares. James opens his mouth, closes it, then decides he can't resist. He quotes, "Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a street in Blackbird Leys." 

Lewis laughs. "Never mind the boys in the band. I think we've got something that's a bit more solid than a surmise. If what we're thinking is true, that he's been scamming both tenants and landlords—" 

"—Bingham would be facing some serious charges of fraud and theft," James concludes. "And if Jenna confronted him with that, it's not inconceivable that he might commit murder to silence her." 

Lewis pulls out his mobile. "I'm calling Innocent now to see if she can request a search warrant first thing in the morning. 

"That sounds like an excellent plan, sir." 

* * *

It is an excellent plan. And as is often the case with excellent plans, reality has other ideas. James is still reading his morning emails when his mobile rings. "Hathaway." It takes a few seconds to identify the voice at the other end, because she's talking twice as fast as normal and half an octave higher. "Lucy, slow down. What's wrong? Are you in danger?"

There's an audible gulp, and she starts again. "No, I'm fine, really. I'm at the office with Uncle Roger. I promised to help him with some filing before my Greek history lecture, but the cabinet fell over and Harry's missing and I don't know what to do." 

"Harry's missing? Are you sure he's not just running late?" 

Another gulp. "He left a voicemail for Uncle Roger on the office line. Something about a holiday. I thought we should call the police. Uncle Roger said 'no', but I think that's because he doesn't want to explain things to some stranger. Can you come? You and your inspector?" 

Lewis has been listening to James's end of the conversation, and he can probably hear the anxious tone of Lucy's voice, if not her actual words. He's already standing and moving towards the door when James says, "We'll be right there." In the car, he repeats Lucy's jumbled statement to Lewis. "He must have heard that we were making inquiries." 

"In a way, Harry's done us a favour," Lewis observes. "No problem now getting a warrant. Call Innocent, let her know." 

By the time they arrive at Excelsior Letting, the Chief Super has been notified, a pair of uniforms have been dispatched to Harry's flat, and his name, photo, and car information have been distributed to the appropriate agencies and offices. "Though he may have already taken a late-night flight to Costa Rica, Indonesia, Morocco, or Dubai," James says, naming a handful of the countries that have no extradition treaty with the UK. 

"Could have," Lewis replies, unperturbed. "I don't think he's that clever or that desperate. More likely he's staying with a girlfriend, or gone to ground at a holiday resort in Brighton or the Costa Brava. We'll see." 

The inside of Excelsior Letting looks as though a hurricane hit it. One of the tall filing cabinets has toppled forward, and is now leaning against the desk. Half the contents of the drawers have spilled out, and are strewn across the desk and the floor around it. Lucy, pale and shaken, is sat in one of the visitor chairs that's been pulled over to the side, away from the mess. She's clasping a large mug of tea. Roger Ebeling stands beside her, one hand resting on her left shoulder. 

Lewis gives James the nod, so he moves forward, pausing at what he judges to be a friendly distance. "Hullo, Lucy." 

"You leave her be," Ebeling snaps. "The lass doesn't need you mithering her now." His Yorkshire accent is much stronger today. 

"We're not here to bother her, Mr Ebeling," Lewis replies. "Miss Dunne called us. We're here at her request." 

"I promised her dad—" 

"Uncle Roger! You're treating me like a child. Sergeant Hathaway, Inspector Lewis... thanks for coming. I'm sorry I sounded so panicky on the phone. The thing with the filing cabinet shook me, you know?" She gestures at the other chairs. "Please, sit." 

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" James suggests. 

Lucy explains that she'd arrived by car with Ebeling around 8:20. He'd asked her to help with some filing. "New contracts. They're all Uncle Roger's clients, which go in the top two file drawers. The first few were in P-Z, the second one down. Then I had some at the beginning of the alphabet, so I opened the top drawer. I know technically I should have closed the other drawer first, so it wouldn't be top-heavy, but it's not usually a problem. As soon as I let go of the handle and started to flip through the folders, I could feel the weight shift. I jumped sideways." She gives a nervous laugh. "I guess the time I spent playing dodgeball at school wasn't a complete waste of time." 

James addresses himself to Roger Ebeling. "Lucy said something about a voicemail from Mr Bingham?" 

"Yes. I was halfway through my messages when I heard the crash and came running. Christ! My heart nearly stopped." 

"May we listen to the message?" 

"Don't see why not." Eberling leads them into the back office and presses a couple of buttons on an old-fashioned answering machine. There's a loud beep and then Harry Bingham's voice announces that he's taking a holiday. He ran into a bird he used to know, and she's invited him for some 'fun in the sun'. 

"Any idea what woman he might be referring to?" Lewis asks. 

Ebeling snorts. "Got a phone directory? Harry is a very friendly bloke, and not overly discriminating." His eyes narrow. "What's all this about? What are you two doing here?" He turns to look at Lucy. "Lass, you don't call the police just because Harry's on the pull." 

Lucy looks at James. "I can't tell him," she whispers, and then she adds in slow but clear Doric Greek, "Accuse someone only when he is present." 

James blinks. It's one of the maxims originally carved on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. There are well over a hundred of them. He scans his memory for an appropriate reply in the same language. "Do not wrong the dead." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a copy of a photo of Jenna. The girl is bright-eyed and laughing as she looks directly at the camera. He hold the photo out to Lucy, and lets Jenna's smile say what he can't find words for. 

Behind him, he hears Ebeling mutter, "What's he saying to her?" 

"No idea, as I don't speak Greek, but I expect he's replying to whatever she said to him." Lewis sounds unconcerned about being excluded from the conversation. Perhaps he can tell from Lucy's expression as she studies the photo that this isn't a frivolous chat. 

"How'd a sensible northern bloke like you wind up with a posh sergeant who speaks Greek?" 

"Jumble sale," Lewis says blandly. "There was a table full of second-hand sergeants, an' he stood out, being the tallest. Now if you're quite finished insulting my partner, Mr Ebeling, I've got some questions for you." 

Thank you, sir. Lewis is giving him time to persuade Lucy to speak up. No matter what happens, they'll be having a conversation with Ebeling, but he'll be much more cooperative if he hears Lucy's explanation firsthand. Lewis starts to lead Ebeling back to the outer office when Lucy says, "Uncle Roger, there's something I need to tell you." 

Immediately, Ebeling is beside her. He listens impassively as Lucy describes her conversation with Jenna and her later visit to the police station. "I don't understand. You think she wanted to warn me that Harry was about to take off with an old girlfriend?" 

"We think she had something more serious on her mind," James replies. 

Lewis beckons the others to follow him to the outer office. He points at the filing cabinet. "Mr Ebeling, do you mind if we take a look?" Ebeling replies with a gesture of invitation. 

James wrestles the cabinet into an upright position and holds it steady while Lewis examines the two bottom drawers. They're empty. At his governor's nod, he gently returns the cabinet to where it was before, leaning against the desk. 

"He's scarpered and taken all his files with him? What the hell has he been up to?" 

"We were hoping you could tell us that," Lewis says dryly. 

"You think that I—" Ebeling sputters. 

James hears his mobile chime, and a second later Lewis's phone also rings. He looks down at the text message, taking in the essential details. The search warrant has been issued; a PC will deliver it shortly. Bingham is not in his flat and his car is gone. He looks at his governor, who has been reading the same text on his own phone. 

"All right, Mr Ebeling. Never mind for now what we think. I'm going to tell you what we know. We know that Harry Bingham was engaged in fraudulent letting practices. We know that Jenna Brimley became aware of those practices. And we know that her killer tried to disguise deliberate murder as a random mugging." 

"Fraudulent?" Ebeling's face is turning an interesting shade of mauve. 

At a nod from Lewis, James produces a printed copy of Elisha Kipchumba's lease. "The landlord is not identified, and the tenant's rent has been increased three times in the past two years." 

Lewis adds, "We're continuing to search for other cases. I've no doubt we'll find them. A search warrant has been issued for these premises, and I'll have it in hand shortly." 

"You go ahead and look wherever you please," Ebeling snaps. "I've got nowt to hide." 

"Unlike your partner?" 

"Ex-partner. Even if the thieving bastard didn't kill the poor lass, I won't have him here." 

"Your cooperation is appreciated," James says. "Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Assuming that your ex-partner isn't hiding out with an ex-girlfriend, does he have family or friends that he might go to?" 

Ebeling has no idea. Bingham's father is dead and his mother is in a care home in Sussex. He has a married sister who emigrated to Vancouver. There are plenty of casual acquaintances—mates down the pub—but Ebeling can't identify any of them. 

The warrant arrives, and with it, a team of DCs, as well as a DS from Fraud with experience in forensic accounting. Lewis directs them to the inner office, and they begin a careful examination of Harry Bingham's desk. 

James remains in the front. Ebeling paces the room. Lucy has returned to her chair. Her shoulders are hunched, her head bowed. 

Ebeling stoops over her. "Lucy? What's the matter?" 

"I was just thinking about Jenna—her asking me if you could be trusted. I don't know how I could have forgotten about it. If I'd told you right away, she'd be alive today." 

"Lass, no. You mustn't blame yourself. You didn't know what she wanted to talk to me about. I would have guessed that it was something personal, like she had a pudding in th'oven. I'd have waited for her to come to me." 

James walks over to the front window and pulls out his mobile. He opens the Solitaire app, frowning over it as though he's reviewing serious and important police messages. He can't give them true privacy, but he can pretend he's not listening. By the time Lewis strides out to join him, Lucy seems calmer, if not exactly happy. 

A few minutes later, and they're in the Vectra, heading for Harry Bingham's flat. There are no irregularities in Roger Ebeling's papers, Lewis explains, at least, none that the team have found so far. They'll continue to search, but DS Kaur is feeling confident that nothing will turn up. 

There are no useful clues at Harry's flat. There's no shaving gear in the bathroom, and there are gaps in the wardrobe where trousers and shirts ought to be hanging. The post scattered across the kitchen table consists of adverts, an electric bill, a notice about a community meeting, and a takeaway menu from Bengal Kitchen. 

Back at the nick, Gurdip reports that there's been no activity on Harry's credit card, but his bank card was used to withdraw £750 from a cash machine in the Templars Square Shopping Centre late last night. "Image from the security camera in the cash machine confirms that it was him using the card, sir. CCTV shows him turning left out of the car park—northeast." 

"And that would be consistent with him heading up to the A40 towards London," James says. 

"Or the A40 going the other way, towards Birmingham, an' maybe the M6 up to bloody Scotland," Lewis grumbles. 

Gurdip says confidently, "Sooner or later he will make a mistake. His car will show up on CCTV, or he will need to get more money. This is not a career criminal who knows how to change his identity or steal a car." 

"God, I hope it's sooner," Lewis says. "Thanks, Gurdip. Good work." 

The rest of the day is devoted to minutiae: phone calls, computer searches, and examining CCTV footage. His back is aching, and for one outrageous moment, he finds himself wishing he could strip off his wing binder and stretch properly. 

"You need a break." 

"What? No, I'm fine." 

"You're a terrible liar," Lewis says. "Go outside. Take a walk, smoke a ciggie, drink some coffee—I don't care. Come back in half an hour, and not a minute sooner. Consider that an order, sergeant." 

"Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil / Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage," James quotes. He rises slowly, and tries to hide his winces as he walks out of the office. 

* * *

The next morning is no better. James has a high threshold of tolerance for detail work, but this isn't intellectually challenging or even particularly useful. He's bent over his keyboard when he hears his governor curse. "Problem?"

"Spilled coffee on me tie. I've got a spare shirt, which I don't need, in me locker, but not a tie." 

The tie Lewis is wearing today is canary yellow. It will show a coffee stain as clearly as blood under luminol. "I've got a spare tie. It's charcoal with a paisley pattern—should match your suit well enough." He reaches into his middle desk drawer and removes a neatly-coiled tie. 

"Ta." Lewis takes the tie and heads in the direction of the loo, where he can find privacy and a mirror. 

They treat themselves to a pub lunch. James tries unsuccessfully to keep his mind off the case. "We could drive down to Chichester; interview the mother." 

"Sussex police spoke to her. She hasn't seen Harry in months." Lewis raises one hand, anticipating his next question. "No answer yet from Vancouver about the sister, not that I expect anything useful. Blood isn't always thicker than water, y'know." 

James knows that perfectly well, and not just from his years on the job. Still, Lewis's remark stirs something vague and shapeless at the back of his mind. _Blood... family..._

Immediately after lunch, Lewis heads to the Chief Super's office. "Herself wants an update. Back in a tick." 

James seats himself at his desk. _Blood... family... blood... family..._ There's something just beyond the edge of his thoughts... _Blood... family... trees._ Yes! He opens the lid of his laptop and starts typing furiously. 

When Lewis walks into the office, his eyebrows shoot up. "I know that cat-in-the-cream look of yours. What have you found?" 

"Harry Bingham has a great-aunt. Millicent Dardenne." 

"Does he, now?" Lewis’s quick smile of approval warms him wonderfully. "How did you find that?" 

"A genealogical database. Harry isn't in it, but his mother is." 

"And where does this great-aunt live? Glasgow? Sydney?" 

"Abingdon. Lambourne Manor Gatehouse." 

"Sounds posh." 

"Not really. The manor house burned down before the Second World War, and most of the land was sold off in small parcels. Not exactly the height of luxury." 

"Right. Let’s see what Auntie Millicent has to tell us."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done it again. Chapter 5 is almost finished--but it won't be the last. I still expect to be posting at reasonable intervals.

It's not hard to locate the entrance to the former Lambourne estate. Two massive stone pillars bracket the driveway, each carved with a capital 'L' above a coat of arms in bas-relief. Lewis eyes the heraldry as he turns slowly into the drive. "The lamb is clear enough, but what's that squiggly thing under it? A snake?"

"A small stream, also known as a bourne," James says. 

"Oh, aye. Up north, we call that a _burn_ ," Lewis replies, his Geordie accent heavy on the last word. "Is Millicent related to the Lambournes?" 

"Not as far as I know. The last of the family died some time in the 1930s. The next owner tried starting up a hotel, which was about to go out of business when it burned down." 

It's half a kilometre from the entrance to the gatehouse. James feels just a little claustrophobic, as the gravelled driveway is bordered by dense woods on the left and a hedgerow on the right. Then the woods angle away and the driveway splits into a neat circle in front of the gatehouse. It's a two-storey stone cottage in the Georgian style. The attached gateway arches from the cottage to a ten-foot section of wall. The driveway continues a short distance beyond the arch, then vanishes into a tangle of weeds. 

Lewis parks the car on the left side of the circle. "Must have been a grand place, back in the day." 

James shrugs. The entire Lambourne estate would easily fit in the southwestern corner of Crevecoeur, between the hay meadow and the apple orchard. Whatever else it may have done to him, his life at Crevecoeur gave him a very high standard for grandeur. 

As they walk up to the door of the gatehouse, James spots an elderly blue Volvo parked behind the building. "Looks like she's home." 

"Let's hope she's feeling talkative." 

Apparently, finding two uninvited policemen at her door is the most delightful thing that has happened to Millicent Dardenne in months. She ushers them into the sitting room, then excuses herself to make tea. 

James looks around the room, silently cataloguing its contents, from the mantel clock over the electric fireplace to the faded Persian rug to the framed print of Waterhouse’s Lady of Shalott. Shabby gentility. 

Millicent returns with a laden silver tray. The porcelain tea set is decorated with deep pink roses, as is the matching plate holding an assortment of biscuits. She pours three cups, serving her guests first. 

Lewis adds sugar and milk to his cup, then helps himself to a biscuit. James follows suit. They murmur thanks. 

"Have some more biscuits," she urges. "I know how you young men love your sweets." 

James blinks. The muffled cough to his left is his governor, trying not to choke on a mouthful of tea. "Thank you, Mrs. Dardenne, but—" 

"Miss," she says crisply. 

"Thank you kindly, Miss Dardenne," James says obediently. "I really couldn’t manage another bite." 

"I had hoped at one time to marry, but it was not to be. I was a Land Girl during the war," she explains. "It was while I was picking hops in Kent that I met Duncan. He was stationed at a nearby RAF base." She goes on to describe their nightly trysts, which never progressed beyond kisses. And then Duncan was shot down over the Channel. They'd planned to be married on the following day, which was Millicent's birthday. 

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Robbie says, with more formality than compassion. It's very unlike him. 

She accepts his words with the dignity of a queen accepting tribute. "Kind though you are, I doubt you came all this way to hear an old woman's reminiscences. What can I do for you?' 

Lewis carefully avoids any mention of the murder. There appear to be some irregularities at Excelsior Letting. Perhaps she can help them sort things out. Has her nephew Harry been to visit lately? Yes? Might he have left any papers with her? Might he have left papers in the house without informing her? 

Millicent informs them that Harry does not visit very often. He did come for tea two days ago. It's possible that he left something behind, but as they can see, the house is not very large. "You have my permission to search the property," she declares. 

"Thank you, Miss Dardenne," James says gravely. "We very much appreciate your cooperation." 

It doesn't take long. The gatehouse is small. They search the kitchen cupboards, the sideboard in the lounge, and the pantry. Millicent does not accompany them upstairs. They divide the two upper rooms between them. Lewis goes into the sitting room; James tackles the bedroom. He quickly goes through the massive wardrobe that dominates the room. When he opens the drawers inside it, they exude the faint odour of lavender. 

The wood chest at the foot of the brass bed is full of wool blankets and flannel sheets, and smells of cedar and mothballs. The bed itself has a pale yellow valance that falls with military precision to a centimetre above the floor. 

James is on his hands and knees peering under the bed when Lewis enters. 

"Nothing in the other room. You find anything here?" 

"Not even a dust bunny," James replies. He stands up, bracing his hand against the bed, then smooths away the dent he left on the surface of the duvet. 

"She was lying," Lewis says abruptly. 

"About what?" 

"Her tragic wartime romance." 

"And you know this because...?" 

"Because that whole load of bollocks is straight out of an old film. 'Bitter Harvest,' starring Ellen Marsden and whatsisface, Cecil Harding." 

"Could it be a coincidence?" 

Robbie shakes his head. "Every last detail matches: a Land Girl in Kent, picking hops, RAF boyfriend who crashes in the Channel the day before her birthday." 

"So she's a lonely old woman who chose to reinvent her past. That's not a crime." 

"Giving false statements to the police is." 

James doesn't bother to point out that the details of Miss Dardenne's love life are irrelevant to their case. "She may have lost someone, even if it didn't happen that way." 

"Isn't much of a tribute to someone she supposedly loved, lying about him," Lewis growls. 

James isn't sure about that. There are all sorts of reasons to lie about people in one's past. Still, he's not going to say that to Valerie Lewis's widower. "Maybe she never had anyone to lose." That comment hits home, and he can see his governor's natural compassion emerge, softening his face. 

"That's as may be. Any road, we'd best be going. There's nowhere left to search. It's not likely that Bingham would have buried his files in the garden." 

"Or hidden them in a hollow tree in the woods," James agrees. 

They make their way downstairs. Lewis thanks Miss Dardenne for her cooperation, and hands her one of his cards. A few more pleasantries—Lewis must be feeling guilty about his uncharitable thoughts, James concludes—then they're out the door. 

Lewis proceeds slowly down the gravelled driveway. He presses his lips together in the way that says he's considering their next move. 

They're almost to the road when James spots something that he missed on the way in. "Sir? Sir! Stop, please?" 

Lewis steps on the brakes suddenly enough to send a spray of gravel behind the rear tyres. "What's wrong?" 

"Sorry." James points out a side-lane running from the right side of the driveway. Narrow and unpaved, it parallels the main road for about twenty metres, then curves away sharply into the woods. 

"Think there might be something there?" Robbie asks. 

"Could be a gardener's shed or maybe an old stable." 

Lewis eyes the lane dubiously. "No way of telling if there's a turnaround at the end, and I'm not going to drive all the way back in reverse. We'll walk." He continues the short distance to the road, and turns sharply left, parking on the grass verge. 

The walk down the lane is pleasant. The August sun, filtered through the rustling green canopy above, is a warm, gentle benediction on his head. The undergrowth in the woods is just thick enough to keep them from seeing what lies around the corner. Spots of colour catch his eye: the pale blue of forget-me-nots and the bright yellow of celandine. He points them out to Robbie. It reminds him of their holiday on Araney. The scenery is nothing like—Araney had no trees, nothing taller than scrub bushes—it's the sense of companionable exploration that brings the island back to him. Of course, on Araney he wouldn't be wearing a suit. He'd be in jeans and a t-shirt, wings half-extended, feeling the sea breeze. 

The first sign of what lies ahead is the sudden brightness that becomes actual glare as the lane ends at a clearing. James pulls his sunglasses out of his pocket. 

"You were right about the shed," Lewis observes, "but that doesn't look like any stable I've ever seen." The shed at the north end of the clearing is a squat box made of corrugated iron and covered in rust. It is dwarfed by the tower at the centre of the clearing: a square Norman-style keep, fifteen feet across and some seventy feet tall. The only visible openings, other than the door, are cross-shaped arrow slits. 

"Definitely not a stable," James agrees. He's never seen this place before, but something about it niggles at his mind. 

"I'm not what you would call an expert on mediaeval architecture, but didn't they usually build these things out in the open? On top of hills, or at least in the edge of a meadow? So they could see the enemy coming or whatnot." 

"They did indeed. This isn't mediaeval at all. This is the Poet's Tower, built some time in the late 19th century, if the stories I've heard are accurate." 

"Another one of your sodding poets?" 

"Not one of the boys in the band, sir. I suppose he must have been a Lambourne, but I've only ever heard him called the Bard of Abingdon. Quite possibly the worst British poet since William McGonagall." 

"That bad, eh?" 

"I could recite the first few verses of 'Ode to the Gasworks Bridge,'" James offers. 

"No, thanks." Lewis pauses. "So he built this for what? To have a place where he could sit and feel poetical?" 

"Something like that, I suppose." They're close enough to the tower now that James has to crane his neck to see the top. 

"Strikes me as a waste of time and money, hauling stones out here so a grown man could play make-believe." 

"Yes and no..." James strokes his fingers across the surface of the tower, then curls them into a fist and knocks lightly. The result is a hollow thud. He smirks at Lewis's look of surprise. "Stucco. It's a sort of plaster made with lime and sand, used to imitate stone, among other things. It's used in a lot of modern fake-Tudor buildings." 

"You're telling me that this is all wood underneath?" 

"Yep. I imagine that the family coffers were dwindling by then." 

"As fascinating as all this is, we should get to work. Best if we split the job." 

James glances over his shoulder at the rusty shed. It looks like the perfect home for spiders. He suppresses a shudder. "I'll be happy to check the tower. No reason for you to climb all those stairs." 

"I'm not ready for a zimmer frame just yet, sergeant. I can handle a few flights of stairs. You take the shed." His governor's frown indicates that it would be a bad idea to argue the point. 

The shed is dark and oppressively hot, but thankfully free of spiders. James props the door open with an ancient coal scuttle. He pulls a small torch out of his jacket pocket, and lets the beam of light swing back and forth. There's quite a lot of junk lying about—a milking pail, rusty rakes, hoes, and shovels, an axe, a wheelbarrow with one handle missing, and a green bicycle with two flat tyres—but nothing that could be used to hide a few square feet of paperwork. His heart skips a beat when he spots a large willow picnic hamper in the rear of the shed. When he lifts the lid, he discovers that some long-ago mouse chewed up the blue floral lining to make a nest. 

He's closing the hamper when he hears the whoosh and the bang. He doesn't remember leaving the shed. One moment he's staring down at scraps of fabric, and the next he's running full-tilt towards the tower, mobile pressed against his ear. He doesn't remember dialing 999. As he mechanically answers the dispatcher's questions, he spots movement out of the corner of his eye. A familiar figure in a long grey skirt and flowered pink blouse is disappearing into the woods at the southwest corner of the clearing. It must be a footpath leading to the gatehouse. He could easily run after her, but that won't help Lewis. A moment later, he hears the sound of a car engine starting up. He's already given Millicent's name to the dispatcher; now he adds a description of her car. 

James stares in horror at the tower. The arrow slits cut into the walls at regular intervals allow him to see how swiftly the flames are advancing up the stairwell. The slits are acting as vents, he realises, providing the fire with the oxygen it needs to grow. He rushes over to the door, grabs the metal handle. "Fuck!" 

_Think, James, think! Use those so-called brains_. Can’t wait for Fire and Rescue to show up. Were there any tools in the shed that he could use to break the door open? A shovel might work... but wasn't there an axe, too? _No, faster to kick it down._ He raises his foot, then sets it down so swiftly that he almost topples over. _God, no!_

If the narrow window slits are fuelling the fire, how much more oxygen will an open door provide? The century-old wood structure is burning merrily—opening the door will turn it into a wild conflagration. Besides, the lower portion of the staircase is already fully engulfed. There’s no way a man could pass safely through it without protective gear and a breathing mask. He backs up until he can see the top of the tower, and stands there, frozen. He's never felt so helpless. 

He's got to _do_ something. If he can get to the top of the tower, maybe he can get inside. He can use the axe to cut an opening in the roof. Was there a ladder in the shed? He doesn't remember. James runs at full pelt across the clearing. He darts inside and spins around, trying to look everywhere at once. _Ladder, ladder, ladder—dear merciful God, let there be a ladder._ There is one. His heart skips a few beats before he recognises that it's a standard household ladder, only a little taller than himself. Useless. 

The sound of tyres on the uneven ground makes him run outside. Two cars emerge from the green cavern that is the lane through the woods. They come to an abrupt halt near the shed. The Chief Super and DCs Hooper and Ripley get out of one car; a pair of uniforms that he doesn't recognise spring out of the other. 

Innocent hurries to his side. "Hathaway, report!" 

James rattles off the essential facts. "What’s keeping Fire and Rescue?" 

"There’s a multi-car collision on the A34. The next available unit is ten minutes away." 

"That’ll be too late." _If it isn’t too late already._ "Even if he’s safely above the level of the fire, the smoke..." 

Innocent’s face is bleak. She knows as well as he does that most fire victims succumb to smoke inhalation long before the flames reach them. "Is there access to the roof? If he can get onto the roof, into fresh air, he’ll stand a much better chance." 

"I don’t know for certain, ma’am, but I suspect there is. That tower was designed by a poet. I imagine he’d want to stand atop his battlements and be inspired by the view." 

"I hope you’re right.." 

_I'm an idiot. A fucking idiot._ "Ma’am," James says urgently, "I can’t just stand by and do nothing." 

"I’m open to suggestions, Sergeant, but unless there’s an extension ladder lying about—" 

He doesn’t hear the rest of her sentence. He strips off his grey suit jacket, praying that his stupidity, his failure to _think_ and remember what he is, hasn't killed Robbie. He throws the jacket on the ground, followed by his favourite blue silk tie. He removes the white shirt so quickly that a loose button pops off the left cuff and disappears in a patch of fallen leaves. 

"James, what are you doing?" 

"Stand back, ma’am." He tugs at the straps of the binder, and silently blesses Sir Andrew yet again. This new binder is much easier to remove than the old one. 

He sees understanding dawn in her face. She doesn’t waste time by asking if he’s sure he wants to do this. "Can you carry his weight? Would it be better to bring a rope up?" 

"Not a rope, ma’am. That’s wood behind the stucco facade. Old, possibly rotten. I wouldn’t trust it to hold a rope securely—not with anything heavier than a cat at the other end. A small cat." 

She nods. "Wait just one moment." Innocent strides over to her car and returns with two items: a small bottle of spring water and a large scarf in an intricate pink, orange and blue geometric print. "Take these." 

He understands immediately. A wet cloth tied around his face will act as an impromptu smoke mask. He won’t be able to help Lewis if the smoke gets to him, too. As soon as his fingers touch the fabric he realises what she’s given him. It’s a Liberty silk scarf. Probably costs more than one hundred pounds. "Ma’am, I’ll use my shirt—" 

"You’ll take this," she snaps, steel in every word. "Silk is finer than cotton. It will be a better filter." 

"Yes, ma’am. Thank you." He ties it loosely around his neck and shoves the water bottle into his trouser pocket. 

She doesn’t weigh him down with too many words, saying only, "Be careful." 

James pulls the binder free, throwing it on top of his discarded clothing. He shakes the stiffness out of his wings, ignoring the gasps and exclamations from the men behind him. Wings up, into takeoff position. Thank God for all the practice he got on Araney. He hasn’t got time to flutter awkwardly like a child again. _Robbie_ hasn’t got time. Three quick steps and a leap, and he’s up. The surrounding trees don’t give him a lot of room to manoeuvre, but he flies around the tower rather than towards it as he gains height. Once he’s ten feet above the roof, he descends, backwinging furiously to soften the landing. The wood of the roof shakes under the impact, but remains solid. 

There’s a hatch in the roof. It’s closed. A few wisps of smoke drift through the narrow crack, but the wood isn’t hot to the touch. He pulls Innocent’s scarf from around his neck and opens the water bottle. He soaks the silk thoroughly, takes a deep breath, then ties the scarf over his mouth and nose. 

The hatch lifts up to reveal a circular room, with a staircase curving along the wall. Through the haze of the white smoke he can dimly see the contents: an antique writing table and matching chair, a small bookcase (empty), and a cardboard bankers' box with a motionless Detective Inspector slumped against it. 

James can't see Robbie's face. _He's got to be alive_. He folds his wings tightly and steps through the hatch, running halfway down the stairs before swinging over the railing and landing on the floor with a loud thud. There's a harsh, raspy cough, which is the most beautiful sound James has ever heard. He hurries over to his governor, grasps him by the shoulders, and pulls him up into a sitting position. 

"James?" Robbie sounds bewildered. "What're you doing here?" 

"Don't try to talk. Can you stand?" Without waiting for a reply, James grasps Robbie under the arms and pulls him to his feet. 

Robbie shakes his head and gasps, "Get box... evidence." 

He wants to say _Fuck the bloody box!_ Duty makes him hesitate. "I'll come back for it. Let's get you up to the roof first." He pushes his stumbling, coughing governor towards the stairs. Once Robbie is sitting down in the fresh air, James shoves the half-full bottle of water at him. He pulls down the scarf and inhales deeply, then tugs it back into place. 

Re-entering the room, he notices another hatch at the opposite side of the room. Thank God Robbie had the presence of mind to close it behind him. If the smoke had been rising freely—no, he won't think about that. The lid of the box is ajar, so he can see it's full of file folders. With a grunt, he lifts it and carries it up to the roof. As he stoops to close the roof hatch, he sees that the hatch in the room below is now outlined in a flickering red glow. 

Robbie is standing, waving over the parapet. Letting Innocent know he's alive. 

"Feeling better, sir?" 

Lewis spins around. "I thought I was dreaming you. How did you—oh!" For the first time, he seems to notice that James is bare from the waist up. "Are you out of your mind?" 

"I thought you might need a lift." 

"Don’t be ridiculous, man. You’ll never—" A series of staccato coughs interrupts his protest. "You'll never bear my weight in the air. You’re not a bloody rescue helicopter." 

"I don’t need to be a helicopter, sir. I just need to be a parachute. And the fire is doing us a favour—it’s creating updrafts." 

"Isn't the fire service is on the way?" 

James explains the delay, and the fact that the fire is about to eat its way into the chamber beneath them. 

Robbie nods. He looks at the cardboard box. "Can you drop that over the side? With luck, enough of it will survive to help nail the murdering sod." 

James starts to lift the box, then sets it down again. "Take off your tie." The tie is James's own, that he lent to Robbie what seems like a century ago. It's longer than a standard one: 160 centimetres of charcoal grey silk wraps around the box with just enough left over to make a secure double knot. 

His mobile rings. There's only one person it can be. "Yes, ma'am?" 

"What's going on?" 

He makes a quick explanation. 

"Don't take too long with the box. Getting you two safely down is the first priority." A pause. "Would it be safer to wait for the fire service?" 

James kneels down and places his hand against the faux-stone surface of the roof. It's noticeably hotter than a few minutes earlier. "No, ma'am. There isn't time." 

"I understand. I'll see you shortly, then." 

He shoves his mobile back in his trousers pocket and without ceremony throws the box over the parapet. He doesn't wait to watch it land, but turns back to Robbie. "Ready?" 

"Right. How do we do this? I can’t exactly ride piggyback." 

James has already considered the issue. "Give me your belt, please." He steps up onto the wide ledge of the parapet and beckons Robbie up. "Don’t look down. Face me, arms around my waist." He has removed his own belt, and quickly threads Robbie’s belt through his buckle, and loops the expanded band around them both. It’s not much of a safety harness, but it’s better than nothing. "Hold tight." He wraps his own arms tightly around his governor. Lewis’s body is solid and warm against his bare torso, but it’s the calm trust in his eyes that most comforts James. 

"Have you got a pithy quote for the occasion?" Robbie asks. 

"I’m afraid I don’t," James confesses. He’s been praying non-stop in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t think Robbie wants to hear that. "I suppose I could shout ‘Geronimo!’" 

"Not in front of the Chief Super. Besides, I reckon the parachute isn’t supposed to do the shouting," Robbie replies dryly. 

James laughs. The unexpected merriment lightens his heart and possibly the rest of him. He raises his wings. "Mind the gap, sir," he says, and leaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William McGonagall is widely considered to be the worst poet in the English language. Read more about his life and work [here](http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/). Drink beverages while reading only at your own risk.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wendmr did her usual stellar beta work on this chapter. I also have to thank Unique POV, who reviewed the medical stuff and kept me from making foolish mistakes.

He’s falling. They’re falling. _Falling dammit too much weight Pater noster qui es in caelis fly up you fool!_ He flaps harder, trying to gain altitude, and every muscle burns with the strain. Something (instinct? Divine guidance?) prompts him to turn right, back towards the tower. _Yes! Deo gratias._ Nearer the building, he catches the updraft from the fire. It isn’t enough to lift them, but it slows their descent. He just needs to hug the building in a downward spiral. _Here we go round the prickly pear, the prickly pear... Faster! What is the airspeed velocity of a laden sergeant? Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra... Terra firma... _/  
__

Glancing down as he turns the next corner, he sees that Robbie’s eyes are as big as old-style pennies and his lips are pressed tightly together. That second of distraction is enough for him to be surprised by a sudden spurt of flame from on of the window-slits. Somehow, he manages to veer away without spilling into a disastrous roll. The ground’s coming up faster now, and he doesn’t want to risk landing too close to the tower.. He banks left, heading towards his starting place, and thank Christ that the Chief Super is clearing out of the way and keeping the others back. 

He comes down at as gentle an angle as he can manage, and for a moment he thinks the landing will be smooth. He’s compensating for the extra weight, but there’s nothing he can do about the extra pair of legs dangling in front of his own, not with the bloody belts trussing them together. Robbie’s heels hit the ground, and he topples backwards, carrying James down with him. It is possibly the most ignominious landing James has ever made in his life, including the time that sun-dazzle made him dizzy and he dropped into the lake at Crevecoeur, but he doesn’t give a damn. 

"Oww!" Robbie groans. 

"Sir! Are you all right?" 

"Well enough, but I’d be better if I didn’t have twelve and a half stone of oversized sergeant squashing me flat as a pancake." 

James fumbles for the belt buckle, but his hand can’t find it. Suddenly, the Chief Super is kneeling beside them. "I see it. James, lean a bit to the right. Good. Just a few seconds more..." 

Suddenly, the tightness around his middle vanishes. He braces his arms on either side of Lewis as if he’s doing a press-up. Innocent snaps an order, and the two young PCs are pulling him to his feet. 

As stood as he's upright and stable, he drops to his knees beside Lewis. "Sir? Don't try to move." 

Lewis ignores him. He snaps at the PCs, "Help me sit up." They obey. To James, he adds, "Think I did something to my left ankle." He waggles his shoulders slowly, and arches his back. "Yeah. The ankle's not happy, but all the rest seems okay." 

Innocent stoops down at Lewis's other side. "Stay put, Robbie. The ambulance will be here shortly." She shifts her gaze. "Well done, James. Very well done." Then she's up and striding away from them, mobile in hand. 

Robbie looks at him. "That was quite a ride. No offence, but I don't think I'll be asking for another." 

"No disrespect intended, sir, but another won't be on offer, except in circumstances that I sincerely hope won't be repeated." 

"Can't be _that_ many arsonist aunties running around Oxfordshire," Robbie says, "or flammable towers for them to burn." 

"For that mine eye toward the lofty tower had drawn me wholly, to its burning top," James quotes. 

Lewis regards him with mock annoyance. "That'll be enough of your Shakespeare, sergeant." 

"Dante, sir." He can't help himself—it's a reflex. 

"Hush, you. Now, where's my evidence got to?" 

"Erm, excuse me, sir?" one of the PCs says hesitantly. Lewis gives him an encouraging nod. "Woodall and I retrieved the box. Chief Superintendent Innocent directed us to put it in the boot of her car." 

"Thank you, Constable...?" 

"Banerjee, sir. We're from Abingdon nick." 

Banerjee and Woodall are standing almost at attention, and they seem to be looking fixedly at a point about one foot over Lewis's head. What's going on? Surely they're not intimidated by Lewis, who has been nothing but kind? Maybe it's the presence of the Chief Super that has them on edge. 

James looks around to see what Innocent is doing. She's standing beyond the cars, still talking on her mobile. As his gaze sweeps the clearing, he notices DCs Hooper and Ripley standing four metres away, staring just as fixedly—at him. 

_Christ!_ He'd known, when he unbound his wings and flew to the top of the tower, that he was outing himself. For Robbie's sake, he'd have flown to the top of Carfax Tower at noon in front of three busloads of camera-toting tourists and a Sky News crew. Now he needs to deal with the consequences of his decision. 

The two DCs are still gawking at him. He studies them coolly, then strides forward until he's standing a few inches too close. "Hooper. Ripley." They stiffen into an approximation of standing at attention. "Got something you want to say, constables?" 

"No, sir," Ripley mumbles. 

Hooper clears his throat. "Sarge," he says, trying (and failing) to sound casual. "So... bird-watching?" 

James mind blanks for a moment, and then he remembers their conversation in the canteen about his holiday. "Right. I did quite a lot of bird-watching in Scotland." 

"I reckon you didn't bring any binoculars with you." 

"Also correct," he says, his voice as stiff as the constable's tense stance. "Something else, Hooper?" 

"Erm... I jus' wanted to say thank you, sir." 

James clenches his jaw to prevent it from dropping open in astonishment. He can count on the fingers of one hand the times that Hooper has called him 'sir' instead of 'Sarge', and he's reasonably sure that he's never heard 'thank you' from the surly constable. "For what?" he asks cautiously. 

Hooper juts his chin in Lewis's direction. "For saving the boss, sir. If you hadn't done what you did, he might not have made it." 

"Just doing my job," James says. 

"Yes, sir. And... erm... won't nobody be hearing about this as shouldn't." 

What the hell does he say to that? James settles for a crisp, "Very good," and releases the two constables with a nod. He spins on his heel and returns to Robbie's side. 

Robbie looks up, then gives him a nod of a very different sort, accompanied by a warm smile. 

Innocent hurries over. "Robbie! Millicent Dardenne is at the Abingdon Police Station." 

"They caught her already? That's quick work." 

"Not exactly. She walked in and told the desk sergeant that she wanted to report a visit from two men masquerading as police detectives... who were actually Nazi spies." 

"Nazis? Real Nazis?" 

"Abwehr agents," Innocent confirms. 

"She's madder than I thought," Robbie says. "I suppose that Feldwebel Hathaway here looks the part, all blond and Aryan, but me—" 

"You do speak German, sir. Better than I do." Not that Millicent had any cause to know that. 

"Miss Dardenne suggested that you were a British collaborator," Innocent replies. "She wasn't quite sure if you were a traitor or merely a dupe." 

"I don't know which is worse," Robbie grumbles. 

"At any rate, she claims that she cleverly distracted you by allowing you to search the house. Afterwards, she set fire to the tower to destroy the valuable military secrets stored in it, thereby preventing them from falling into enemy hands." The Chief Super looks at each of them in turn, her face somber. "She was quite convinced that you two had left the property and would be returning after dark to seize the files." 

"So she didn't intend murder." Robbie's northern accent is more pronounced than usual. 

_I'm sure that would have been a great comfort to your children_ , James thinks sourly, then pushes the thought away. There's enough actual tragedy—Jenna Brimley's distraught parents come to mind—without fretting over might-have-beens. Millicent Dardenne is out of the picture. It's pretty certain that she'll be sectioned, since her delusions make her dangerous to others. What's important now is the box waiting in the boot of Innocent's car. The box Robbie nearly gave his life to find. 

He's pulled out of his thoughts by the long, shrill wail of an ambulance siren. _About bloody time._

"James!" By the look on her face, he can tell this isn't the first time the Chief Super has called his name. 

"Ma'am?" 

"Perhaps you'd better go into the shed for now?" 

_What the—oh_. There will be a crew of two in the ambulance, and five in the fire engine when it arrives. Seven strangers, and none of them under Innocent's command or control. She's trying to protect his privacy, as she has ever since he trusted her with his secret, five years ago. 

_This_ is the decision point. Earlier, he could have no more refused to help Robbie then he could have stopped breathing, and for much the same reason. Now... He looks at the man in a rumpled suit sat on the grass. Lewis, his governor who has always treated him as if he was normal, even after learning the truth. Robbie, his best mate, who has taught him not to be ashamed of what he is. James takes a deep breath. "No, ma'am. I'd rather not." 

"Are you sure?" It's not her 'you're making a mistake' voice; she really is leaving it up to him. 

"Very sure, ma'am." He's finished with shame; perhaps it's time to put away fear, too. 

The ambulance pulls into the clearing and parks beside the police cars. She gestures at Lewis. "His left ankle is injured and he inhaled some smoke." The paramedics set down their bags of gear and start tending to their patient. Within a few minutes, Robbie is on a stretcher, sporting an oxygen mask, a blood pressure cuff, and an ankle splint. 

One of the paramedics approaches James. "Hullo. I'm Pete. And you are?" 

"Sergeant James Hathaway." 

"James, I need to look you over. It won't take but a minute." 

Pete (his nametag says P. Greer) is looking at James—at all of James, not just his wings. James can't fault the man for doing his job, so he responds courteously. "I'm fine. You take care of DI Lewis." 

"Your boss is doing all right. He's on the oxygen, which is going to perk him up, and my mate Charlie is keeping a good eye on him." Charlie turns his head just long enough to smile and nod. "You were inside the same place, breathing that smoke, so I just want to check you out." 

"I'm fine," James repeats. "I wasn't inside nearly as long." 

"Sergeant Hathaway," Innocent says crisply. "Normally, I'd leave this to Inspector Lewis. As he's wearing an oxygen mask just now, which he ought not to remove, I'll speak for him." 

"Ma'am?" 

"Stop acting like an idiot, and let Mr Greer examine you." 

"Yes, ma'am." Wearily, James submits to the questions (no pain, no difficulty breathing) and to being poked and prodded. 

"BP 134/90," Greer announces. "That's to be expected, what with the exercise and the adrenalin. O2 sats 96%. Good. Heart rate... Charlie, you want to double-check me, here?" His voice has slipped into a tone that James would call 'professional calm'. He uses it himself when talking to victims and witnesses in worrying situations. 

Charlie comes to look at the meter clipped to James's finger. "Hmmmm..." he says. "I see what you mean. James, why don't you sit down, eh? Relax for a couple of minutes." 

It's not easy, reading the pulse display upside down. Once James does, he understands why they're treating him like unexploded ordnance. "Erm... 146 isn't very high for me. My normal resting pulse is 130." 

The paramedics look at each other, conducting a silent conversation with just a few glances. James fancies that he can interpret some of it. 

_You think he's telling the truth?_

_How the fuck should I know? They didn't cover_ this _in training._

_You know Rule #1, Charlie: when in doubt, assume the patient is lying._

Their wordless dialogue is interrupted by a sharp double hand-clap. They all look down at Lewis, his annoyance quite visible despite the oxygen mask covering half his face. His governor points at James, then nods emphatically at the paramedics. 

James says, "I was in hospital six months ago. Bullet wound." He touches his right shoulder. "Inspector Lewis was thoroughly briefed by the specialist who operated on me. He knows what my vitals ought to be, and I guarantee that if they were dangerously high or low he'd speak up." Lewis makes a zigzag gesture with his right hand over his open left palm. "Or write you a very testy note," James translates. 

Innocent tilts her head to one side. "Finally!" 

In the distance, James can hear the two-tone siren of a fire engine becoming louder and louder as it approaches. The fire engine slows to let one man jump off before pulling closer to the tower. The fireman (evidently the crew chief) rushes up to Innocent. 

"Ma'am, Dispatch reported that someone was trapped inside the structure," the crew chief snaps. "Can you confirm?" 

"It's all right: he got safely out," Innocent replies. 

The crew chief—his name tag says L. Ganivet—demands, "There's no one else inside? You're certain?" 

Robbie lifts the bottom edge of the oxygen mask so he can speak clearly, despite the scowls of the paramedics. "There was just me inside. I was nearly to the top room when that bloody maniac emptied a can of petrol at the entrance, lit it, and ran off. There's no way anyone else could have got in." 

Ganivet looks at the tower, then back again at Lewis. "How did you get out?" 

Another consequence to be dealt with. James steps forward. "I carried him down," he says evenly. 

To his credit, Ganivet's professionalism keeps his astonishment in check. "None too soon. I'm happy not to have to send anyone up on the ladder. That thing's about to collapse, or I'll eat my boots. Scuse me!" He runs towards the engine, bellowing orders. 

Pete Greer resumes his conversation with James. "Weeeelll... it is your right to refuse treatment. You might have them recheck your vitals at the hospital, since I suppose you'll be following us in." 

"I thought I'd come in the ambulance." 

"We don't normally do that," Greer says. "Except for next-of-kin in cases of extreme emergency. Your boss is doing well enough." 

"Of course, other patients get to travel in the back," Charlie interjects. "Like someone who's been inhaling smoke, and ought to be on oxygen for a while." 

James recognises a skilful trap when he sees one. "I need to get dressed first." His clothing, neatly folded, is in the Chief Super's car. Putting on the binder is something he can do without much conscious thought. Shirt next, then jacket. In a moment of unexpected rebellion, he tucks his neatly-rolled tie into his left jacket pocket. The wing mirrors on the car are too small to be useful, but his reflection in the right rear window is good enough to reassure him that he doesn't look like Sergeant Quasimodo. 

He follows Charlie and Pete as they carry Lewis's stretcher towards the ambulance. There's shouting behind him—muffled, urgent shouting. He spins around. The firefighters are running away from the tower, which is now fully involved in fire. Flames pour out of every arrow-slit, streaking up across the blackened surface. The lower half of the tower is riddled with burn holes. The black latticework against the roiling red-gold background looks hellish and beautiful. _Devil's lace._

"She's gonna fall," Charlie murmurs. 

Everyone is watching now. Innocent and the junior officers clustered around her. The paramedics. Even Lewis, despite his recumbent position on the stretcher, has lifted his head to stare at the spectacle. The tower shivers, then turns in a slow pirouette before collapsing onto itself with a roar and a blossoming fireball nearly as wide as the tower is tall. 

"That was something to see," Pete observes. "All right, Charlie—show's over. Let's get these gentlemen on their way to hospital." 

Within minutes, they're inside. Robbie's strapped down. James is sat on a jump-seat beside him with an oxygen mask of his own. Pete positions himself near Robbie's head. "We'll be there quick as a wink." He bends his head to check Robbie's vitals. 

James snaps his fingers to get Pete's attention, then points at the read-out. 

"Hmmm? Oh. His O2 sats are improving. Don't you worry about him. Doctors might want to keep him overnight for observation, but odds are, no longer than that. He'll be fine." 

_Oh, that's all right, then_ , an internal voice sneers. _But if you'd found him a few minutes later, he'd be done for_... There's an image in his mind that won't go away—not the dramatic collapse of the tower, but the sight of Robbie in that smoke-filled room, lying motionless on the floor. His heart pounds, his hands are shaking, and he suspects that any moment he may puke up the tea and biscuits that Millicent Dardenne served him. He closes his eyes and breathes shallowly. 

Suddenly, he feels a gentle touch. James opens his eyes to find Robbie's right hand resting on his knee. The nausea retreats, and his heart quiets a little. Robbie studies him and wrinkles his forehead. He looks expectant. 

James shakes his head. _I don't know what you want._

Robbie raises his hand, palm up, and extends it as if reaching for something. 

"I think he wants to hold your hand," Pete says quietly. "It's okay. There are even studies showing that physical touch has all kinds of beneficial health effects—lowering blood pressure, decreasing the levels of stress hormones in the blood. Go ahead. It'll do him good." 

James nods. Wearing an oxygen mask means that Pete can't expect him to speak. James knows perfectly well that Robbie is reaching out to give comfort rather than receive it. 

* * *

They reach the John Radcliffe after what feels like a very long journey, but is probably no more than twenty minutes. Pete's prediction comes true: the doctor in A&E wants to admit Robbie. "We'd like to keep an eye on you, Mr Lewis."

James gets to remove his oxygen mask. His O2 sats are 98%. He declines to have any other tests or physical exams. He nods obediently when Dr Petridis advises him to follow up with his own GP. No need to tell him that James hasn't got a GP. 

And then Robbie is whisked away for an x-ray, so James visits the third floor cafe, which sells reasonably good coffee. He doesn't order anything else; the nausea's gone, but he's not hungry. When he returns to A&E, a nurse informs him that Robbie has been taken to his room, so he heads upstairs in search of his governor. 

Robbie isn't alone in his room. The Chief Super is there. "James! Excellent timing." 

As he comes closer, James takes in the details. The head of the bed is elevated at a 45 degree angle. An IV is connected to Robbie's left arm. His eyelids are drooping, and he's wearing a different kind of oxygen mask— _Christ!_ That's not a mask, it's a tracheal tube. "Ma'am!" 

Innocent spins towards Robbie, quickly assessing him. Her stiff posture loosens as she turns back to James. "It's not as serious as it looks. Oxygen is standard treatment for smoke inhalation. Some symptoms don't show up until 24 hours after exposure. One possible reaction is a temporary swelling of the throat. The tube will ensure that he continues to get a steady supply of oxygen. He looks like he's drunk because they gave him a sedative before putting the tube in." Robbie pulls a face, looking very much like a disgruntled drunkard. "Poor Robbie," Innocent says. "All of the miseries of a drunken spree, and none of the fun." 

She gives James a rapid summary of Robbie's medical condition. The ankle is only sprained. The IV contains fluids to keep him properly hydrated. 24 to 48 hours on oxygen should take care of the worst of the smoke inhalation. Robbie may be a bit hoarse for a few days afterwards, may have a lingering cough. No long-term problems. 

"That's good news, ma'am." James murmurs. 

"It is. Which is why I want you to leave when visiting hours end." She raises a peremptory hand. "Inspector Lewis is in no danger, thanks to you. There's no need to keep vigil over him. You will depart at 8:30 promptly. Just in case your watch mysteriously malfunctions, the nurse will notify you when it's time to go." Her gaze, not quite as steely-eyed as usual, tells him that if he disobeys, There Will Be Consequences. 

"Yes, ma'am." 

She gives him a slight smile. "I don't want to see you in my nick until Monday morning." She turns towards the bed. "That goes for you, too, Robbie." 

Robbie replies with a hand gesture, as he can't nod with a tube down his throat. He can't sigh, either, but his face conveys his displeasure. 

"Don't pout, Robbie," Innocent advises him. "It doesn't become a man of your—rank and experience." 

_She was going to say 'age'._ James is careful to keep a straight face. Robbie is not so befuddled by the sedative that he overlooks the word substitution. It's probably a good thing for his continued career that he can't speak just now. 

Innocent turns back to James. "Before I go, I have some things to tell you. I spoke to the fire crew chief, Mr Ganivet. He understands that any hint of indiscreet, unprofessional behaviour on the part of his crew would lead to my having a conversation with his Station Manager, and if necessary, with the Chief Fire Officer." 

The head of the Oxfordshire Fire and Rescue Service? Innocent really is determined to protect him. "Thank you, ma'am—" 

She continues as if he hadn't spoken. "The paramedics are aware of their legal responsibilities regarding patient privacy. The coppers know when to hold their tongues, though I understand that DC Hooper has already discussed this matter with you?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Very good." She gives them both a pleased nod, and is gone. 

With a snap of his fingers and a few gestures, Robbie orders James to pull the visitor chair beside his bed and sit down. He obeys. Robbie begins an interview using only his facial expressions and his hands. James replies that he's fine. No, really—he's fine. He doesn't know what's being done with the box. Presumably the Chief Super has given it to the right sort of financial fraud experts. He doesn't know any more about Robbie's state of health than what Innocent just told him. Yes, he thinks the doctors are serious about keeping him for 24 hours at the very least. He doesn't wish to be presumptuous, but he rather agrees with the doctors in this instance. 

Then it's over, and the room is silent except for the whoosh and clicks and beeps of the medical machinery. And in that silence, James can feel the words sticking in his throat. The words he owes to the man in the hospital bed. He doesn't even know how to begin. _Robbie? Sir?_ His offence was against his friend _and_ his superior officer. _Never mind the details, James. Just say it._ He exhales heavily. "There's something I need to tell you..." 

Robbie blinks, then makes a go-ahead gesture. 

"''Scuse me, gentlemen." The cheerful baritone rumble belongs to a nurse with a metre-wide smile. He's as tall as James, and half again as wide. "Sorry to interrupt, but I've got Mr Lewis's dinner here." He holds up a bag filled with a light yellow liquid and attaches it to the IV stand. Robbie wrinkles his nose. 

"I think he's trying to say that it looks like something that ought to be coming out of him rather than going in. Unless that's a very pale ale," James observes. 

The nurse chuckles. "Sorry, no ale. Tonight's special has got dextrose, amino acids, lipids and a whole alphabet soup's worth of vitamins. The good news is that you're getting it intravenously because you won't be in hospital long enough to need a gastric feeding tube." Robbie grimaces. "Before you know it, you'll be at your local, having a pint and a lovely pie, yeah?" The nurse examines the monitors, scribbles something on Robbie's chart, and strides out of the room. 

James becomes aware that Robbie is trying to get his attention. He's giving James a quizzical look while his right hand makes a scooping motion near his mouth. _Have you eaten?_

"I'm not hungry just yet. I'll have soup or something when I go home." Robbie frowns. "I will, I promise," James tells him earnestly. Bad enough that his obtuseness landed Robbie in a hospital bed with a tube down his throat. He shouldn't add to his governor's burden by making him fret about James's well-being. He forces a smile. "You've no need to worry about me, sir. And you must admit, of the two of us, I'm better equipped for the role of mother hen." 

The tube makes laughter impossible and smiling difficult, but the corners of Robbie's red-rimmed eyes crease with amusement. Just as quickly he sobers again, and gestures for James to talk. 

Is it right for him to say this now, while Robbie can't speak and is distracted by his injuries? Is he being selfish, placing his desire for absolution over Robbie's need to rest and recover? He doesn't doubt that Robbie will forgive him. And yet... he doesn't want his confession to seem like an afterthought. He offers a silent prayer for courage and strength. "The thing is—" 

"There you are!" a familiar voice exclaims. Laura Hobson sweeps into the room. "Robbie, James—Jean just told me you were here. She said it wasn't too bad, but I had to see for myself. What happened?" She turns to James. 

"Erm... what did the Chief Super tell you?" He rises, offering her the chair. 

"Not much. Just that you two were searching outbuildings on a suspect's property, that one of them caught fire, and that Robbie breathed in too much smoke before you helped him get out." 

_She didn't tell._ "That's more or less what happened," he agrees. 

"Thank God you're both all right. You are okay, James?" He assures her that he is. She studies the monitors and the chart, then nods to herself in (relative) satisfaction. "It could be much worse. Jean told me it was an old wooden building, with no plastics, no synthetic carpeting or foam insulation. Wood smoke is unpleasant enough, but there's nothing quite like a lungful of hydrogen cyanide to ruin your day." Robbie frowns. "I know," she says with a wry smile. "I'm rubbish at cheering people up. There's a reason I went into a speciality that doesn't require a good bedside manner." 

James moves towards the door. "While you two are talking, I'll... erm... get some more coffee." Seeing Robbie's narrowed eyes, he adds, "Sir, I'll be back in five minutes, I promise." Robbie gives him a nod. Released, he steps into the corridor. He heads towards the cafe. He doesn't want coffee, but, having chosen that excuse, he has to follow through. _I ought to have said I was going to the loo._ Then again, if he takes five full minutes in the loo, Robbie is likely to worry that his nausea has come back. _Damn_. 

In the cafe he orders a large coffee and carries it to a table, where it sits untouched. He likes Laura Hobson. She's warm and personable. She has a sharp sense of humour, a sometimes sharp tongue and an always sharp mind. It's the last that worries him. He doesn't want her noticing his agitation and asking concerned questions. Not before he's had a chance to talk to Robbie. He glances at his watch. Three minutes gone. He takes a quick gulp of coffee, then carries the cup into the loo, pouring most of the contents down the sink. 

When he returns to the room, Dr Hobson is standing in the doorway. She presses a finger to her lips and steps into the corridor. "He's asleep. Not surprising, and it's good for him." She studies his face. "You should do the same. And try not to fret too much. He really will be all right." 

"Thank you, Doctor. I'll be going home before too long." He returns to the chair. 

In sleep, Robbie looks relaxed, temporarily unburdened from the pain of his injuries and the frustration of being in hospital. James watches him, torn between wanting Robbie to get the rest he needs and wanting him to awaken and listen to James's confession. He needs to chase away the thoughts that are churning in his mind. Swiftly, he crosses himself. _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem_... Before long, the silent repetition of the familiar prayers brings him to a state of calm—or at least control. 

He doesn't know how many decades of the Rosary he's gone through when Robbie stirs. James watches as Robbie comes to himself. Eyes blink open, studying the medical equipment. He glances at James, then looks around the room, turning back to James with a questioning look. 

"Doctor Hobson? She went home. She didn't complain, but I suspect that your non-stop chatter drove her away." 

Robbie rolls his eyes. 

_Now. I've got to tell him now, before I lose my nerve_. "Sir—" 

A nurse walks in—not the cheerful giant of earlier, but an Asian woman in her mid-forties. Visiting hours are over, she tells James, with a quiet authority that reminds him of the Chief Super. He may return tomorrow at 2:30 PM. "And no earlier," she adds with a slight smile that suggests she's been warned about him. 

"Right, then." He leans forward, impulsively grasps Robbie's left hand and squeezes it. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon." Robbie squeezes back, and his eyes smile. 

James keeps his own smile until he walks out of Robbie's room. He's been given an eighteen-hour reprieve, and—God help him!—he can't decide if he's relieved or terrified.


	6. Chapter 6

When he walks into the main lobby, there's a PC scanning the area so diligently that James wonders if he's searching for a suspect. The PC spots him and hurries over. "Sergeant Hathaway?"

"Yes?" 

"Sir, Chief Superintendent Innocent instructed me to drive you home." 

Until this moment, James hadn't given any thought about transport. Innocent had taken Robbie's car keys before he went into the ambulance. No doubt one of the constables drove it back to the nick. His own car is still parked outside his flat. "All right." He gestures for the young man to lead the way. 

James seats himself in the rear of the car. He wants—needs—distance. He is silent as the car moves through town under a darkening sky. They've just driven past the Red Lion when he notices the PC eyeing him surreptitiously in the rear-view mirror. _He knows! Someone told him!_ After the initial shock, James finds that he isn't particularly panicked. He's not keen to be outed, but having people gape at him isn't the worst thing that could happen, after all. The worst thing is what nearly came to pass: letting Robbie die because he was too blinkered by his own fears to take immediate action. 

"Erm... sir? May I ask a question?" 

_He's bolder than I expected._ "Yes, Constable?" 

"How is DI Lewis?" 

In his surprise, James nearly replies _'Who?'_ He says calmly, "The doctors expect him to make a full recovery. They've got him on oxygen overnight as a precaution." 

"Oh, that's good news, sir. Thank you for telling me." 

It's only common decency. Besides, he doesn't want wild rumours spreading around the nick. "Does he know you?" 

"Oh, he wouldn't remember me. Brought him some boxes from Evidence once. And I was helping keep a perimeter around a warehouse last winter. Day after Boxing Day it was, and colder than a... anything. He asked me to go to this cafe down the street and get him a coffee. A fancy latte, it was. And he handed me a fiver, and told me to get something for myself too." 

James remembers that bitterly cold evening very clearly, in no small part because the gingerbread latte was not for Robbie, but for _him_. Now it seems he wasn't the only recipient of his governor's kindness. He has no doubt that Lewis chose that particular PC as his gofer because he saw that the boy was freezing to death. "What's your name?" 

"Ainslie, sir. Fred Ainslie." 

"When I see DI Lewis tomorrow, I'll tell him that PC Fred Ainslie was asking after him." _And he'll remember you. Even if he doesn't know your name, he'll remember you._

"Thank you, sir." 

James lapses back into silence. 

* * *

He walks into his dark flat, switches on a couple of lamps, and flops down onto the sofa. What now? It's just turning nine. Far too early to go to bed, not that he expects to get much sleep tonight. Maybe he'll put on some music, then pour a glass of wine. _Not a good idea on an empty stomach. And I promised Robbie I'd eat something._ He wanders into the kitchen, and inspects the contents of his fridge and cupboards. Eventually, he settles on poached eggs and plain toast. He should eat more, since flying burns a lot of energy, but his body seems content at the moment. 

Meal over, he considers what to turn to next. Not a book or his guitar. Nothing that requires concentration. Maybe some mindless telly. _Though it's more fun with Robbie_... No, he isn't going to think about Robbie now. (He isn't going to think about anything else.) James's head droops until his chin rests on his chest. _I reek_. He smells of wood smoke and sweat and hospital antiseptic. _Time for a shower._

As James strips off his clothing, he rediscovers a variety of aching and knotted muscles. He sets the water temperature higher than usual and pulls the glass door closed behind him. He partly unfolds his wings, and turns, letting the full force of the water pummel his upper back and shoulders. He closes his eyes, the better to savour the heat and the pulse of the water. Slowly, the aches fade and the knots loosen, as if pain can dissolve like salt and be swept down the drain. He opens his eyes and gasps. He's surrounded by dense clouds of swirling white smoke. _God I'm trapped, trapped, where's Robbie!_ He spins wildly—and smacks his elbow against the wall of the shower stall. The flare of pain returns him to reality. _Idiot!_ With a muttered curse, he grabs the soap and does a quick job of washing himself. 

Dry, and clad in a pair of green cotton sleep pants, James returns to the sofa. For lack of any better idea, he turns on the telly. There's a documentary about the marine life of the Aegean. He ignores the narrator explaining the unique hydrography of the region, and watches the blue damselfish dart through clear turquoise waters. It's soothing, and when the programme is followed by something tedious about high-speed trains, he can't be arsed to reach for the remote. Eventually he clicks the power button, and trudges into the bedroom. He pulls the duvet up, switches off the bedside lamp, and is asleep sooner than he would have thought possible. 

_He's wandering through a maze. At first he thinks it's got something to do with a case, because he's dressed for work, in a suit and tie. Only Robbie isn't there, and James hasn't got a torch, and despite the darkness he can see that the walls of the maze are inscribed with the Delphic maxims. Then he knows, as one can know impossible things in dreams, that this is Delphi, and he is going to meet the Pythia, the oracle of Apollo._

_After what seems like hours, he sees an doorway leading into a large room. In front of it stands Roger Ebeling. The letting agent wears a knee-length wool chiton dyed dark red with madder._ The colour of blood. _He demands, in Yorkshire-accented Greek, "Why have you come here?"_

_"I wish to speak to the Pythia." He knows that Ebeling can't be the Pythia, because the oracle is always a woman, a Priestess of Apollo._

_"Are you a servant of Apollo?"_

_James isn't certain if playing a guitar for his own pleasure counts as service to the god of music. "I am a servant of Themis," he replies, naming the goddess of justice._

_"Pass, seeker of truth."_

_James steps into the brightly lit room. Other than the stone floor and Doric columns, it's an exact replica of the front office at Excelsior Letting. The young woman behind the desk gazes at him calmly. "Hello, James."_

_He knows her at once, though they've never really met. "Hello, Jenna."_

"I'm not Jenna, not now. The Pythia has to give up her name while she serves. It's the rule. What did you come to ask me?" 

_His mind is curiously blank. "I don't know... What advice do you have for me?"_

_She smiles. "About flying... mind your balance, yeah?"_

_He's not sure why Jenna feels qualified to give him advice on flying, even if she is temporarily an oracle. Still, all the legends warn about the terrible consequences of insulting the Pythia. "Thanks." He's about to ask if she knows where Harry Bingham is hiding when he hears a distant voice. It's Robbie, shouting his name. He darts around Jenna's desk and runs out the back door._

_There's stone beneath his feet and a perfect blue sky above him. He's in the ruins of ancient Delphi. He's never been here before in his waking life, but he recognises everything he sees. There's the Athenian Treasury, and there, the Altar of the Chians. In that direction, out of sight, is the Sacred Spring._

_"James!" The voice is louder, more urgent. "Help me!"_

There! _Somehow, the Poet's Tower doesn't look at all incongruous sitting in the midst of scattered stones and broken columns. Smoke billows up into the cloudless sky. He sees Robbie bent over the parapet, waving frantically. "I'm coming, sir!" James pulls off his jacket, then his tie. He unbuttons his shirt and discovers bare skin beneath. He's not wearing his binder. He's not wearing his wings. "Fuck! I left them in the workshop!" In the workshop, which is in the centre of the maze. He turns around, looking for the door he used to exit the Pythia's office. There's no door. No office. No building. There's only the bare rectangular foundation of the Temple of Apollo, edged on two sides with stone columns._

_He_ must _find his wings. Why did he get out of the habit of wearing them? James looks up at the burning tower. Robbie waves at him. "It's all right, I've got a parachute," his governor shouts. He holds up an old-fashioned black umbrella. "Borrowed it from Miss Poppins." James can only watch, horror-struck as Robbie climbs onto the parapet, holds the open umbrella above his head, and casually steps off the edge._

_"Noooooooooooo!" James screams._

He awakens with a jolt, panting as though he's run a 15 kilometre race. It takes several tries for his shaking hand to turn on the bedside lamp. The alarm clock says it's a little past 4 AM. He gets up and heads to the kitchen, pausing only to pull a sweatshirt over his head. Should it feel this cold in August? He makes a cup of tea and drinks it at the table. He's no stranger to nightmares. This one was more powerful than any he's had for some time. No surprise considering the day he's had. _Tomorrow will be better. Once Robbie comes home, it will be better._

James drains the last of the tea and returns to bed, leaving the sweatshirt on. He turns off the light, settles himself in a comfortable position, and tries every mental discipline he knows to empty his mind. No good. He stays in place. If he can't sleep, at least he can rest his body. 

He finally gives up on sleep around 5:30. His curtains block the morning light, but they don't keep out sound. Even on a Saturday, there's the growing rumble of traffic. A dog barks in the distance. A blackbird in the back garden begins his loud, sweet trill. Robins, wrens, sparrows and others join the chorus. The winged creatures of Oxford welcome the returning sun, and start their day knowing without doubt or question what they are and what their purpose is in the world. 

* * *

James thinks about the day ahead while cleaning his teeth. He's got over eight hours before he can visit Robbie. That's a full working day. He'd be willing go into the nick and risk Innocent's wrath, but there's not likely to be much he can do. After a quick breakfast, he gets dressed and tackles some minor repair jobs around the flat that he's been putting off. He turns to cleaning next, and wipes, polishes, scrubs and hoovers until the place is ready for inspection by the Chief Constable. 

He checks the clock and groans aloud. It's still unreasonably early—at work he wouldn't even be taking his morning break yet. Since he's _not_ at work, he gets out the cafetiere and makes a large cup of coffee. On another day he'd take it into the back garden and enjoy it in the sunshine with a ciggie, but he's wearing inside clothes, with wings unbound, and he can't be arsed to change. 

James remembers an unusually warm June afternoon in Cambridge that produced a crop of shirtless young men down by the river. Celia Marwick, a classmate in Metaphysics, regarded them with a mixture of disapproval and envy. "It's not fair," she complained. "You get to go around half-naked without creating any fuss." He knew that 'you' meant male students in general, but Celia jabbed a finger at him when she said it. Temporarily at a loss for words, he'd said something vague about the unfairness of the world. 

He thinks about going for a run, or a row on the river. Maybe physical exertion will burn off some of his nervous energy. A run would be better, he decides. He can stop whenever he wishes. He trades the indoors clothing for his binder, a Futureheads t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. 

He runs, first at an easy lope, and then with increasing speed and intensity. This isn't a race, he reminds himself. There's no finish line awaiting him. Why does he feel this pressure to run as quickly as he can? _Trying to outrun my thoughts. Dolt!_ He's tempted to give up, but some streak of stubbornness or pride won't let him. He follows a familiar route that totals five kilometres and ends within comfortable walking distance of home—and a favourite sandwich shop. By the clock, it's still too early for lunch, but his stomach disagrees. His hasty breakfast of coffee with toast and marmalade feels like a very long time ago. A ham and brie baguette will set him up nicely for the afternoon. 

Home again. He wanders from room to room, feeling as though he's a ghost haunting his own flat. He tries playing his guitar, but gives up the notion after the first few bars of music. The book that seemed engaging and insightful three days ago can't hold his attention for more than a dozen pages. He reproves himself: however restless and impatient he may feel, Robbie has it worse. The effort leaves him feeling still restless and impatient—and guilty. 

Finally, it's time. He's already changed into a fresh t-shirt. He gets into his car and heads over to Robbie's flat. As soon as he steps inside the door, Monty announces with imperious meows that he is starving. James eyes the partially-filled bowl of dry food. "Gluttony is one of the seven capital sins," he informs the cat. Monty, unimpressed, continues to whinge until James opens a can of Dainty Morsels Tuna and Liver Flavour. 

James goes into the bedroom and fills a small duffel with clothing: briefs, khaki trousers, socks, an old rugby shirt and a loose-fitting pair of trainers. As he carries it out, he sees Monty sprawled on the sofa. "And sloth is another of them." The cat peers at him through slitted green eyes, then yawns. _I am as my Creator made me_ , his demeanor seems to say. 

* * *

He finds Robbie in his room, perched on the edge of the bed. Robbie is disconnected from the oxygen, the IV, and the monitors. "Took you long enough," he rasps. 

According to James's watch, he entered the room at 2:32 PM. "Sorry, sir. I went to your flat to get you some more suitable clothing." He offers the duffel to Lewis. 

Robbie takes the bag and nods with satisfaction when he sees the contents. "I didn't fancy going home in what I wore yesterday. I'd look like I'd been sleeping rough, and I'd smell like a chimney." His glower defies James to show any sympathy. 

"Quite right, sir. It's essential to protect the dignity of the Force, not to mention the inside of my car." 

Robbie snorts. He makes short work of getting dressed. "Right. Get me out of here." 

Within half an hour, they're sat in the beer garden of the Miller's Arms. Robbie wants a pint and a pie. James is content with sparkling water and a packet of cheese-and-onion flavoured crisps. When Robbie starts to rise, James springs to his feet. "I'll get the next round, if you're ready for it." 

"You can't take care of what I'm ready for," Robbie says with a wry smile. " Sit down, James. A slow walk to the loo won't hurt me. Any road, I'm supposed to do some gentle exercise." 

When Robbie returns—walking slowly, but not limping—James recalls the message he promised to deliver. 

Robbie remembers the name as well as the incident. "I could see him shivering, but the look on his face said he'd turn into an icicle before he'd complain or ask for a break." 

They'd had what seemed like scores of junior officers on scene. Ainslie could have asked to be covered for a short break without compromising the perimeter in the slightest. "So you took pity on him." 

"Nah. I was impressed by his stubbornness. I've always liked the stubborn ones," Robbie says, giving him a meaningful smile. 

"Takes one to know one?" James suggests. 

Robbie pulls a face. "Time to head home." 

Monty meets them at the door, telling Robbie in no uncertain terms that he hasn't been fed since yesterday morning. Robbie, knowing the truth of the matter, ignores him. "Sit down and tell me what's on your mind. You were trying to tell me something last night, only you kept being interrupted." 

"I'm not... it can wait," James stammers. Yes, he wants—needs!—to apologise to Robbie, but he'd expected to be able to choose his moment. To try to muster his courage. 

"James, I wasn't so out of it that I couldn't see something was eating at you. Tell me. Please." 

The 'please' almost undoes him, and the concerned look on Robbie's face completes the job. _God help me._ "It's about yesterday. I owe you an apology." Not that any apology could suffice. 

"For what, exactly?" 

"The... erm... tower." 

Robbie smiles. "You're not apologizing for saving my life, I hope." 

_Doesn't he understand?_ "Not what I meant, sir." James inhales deeply; he needs the delay as much as the oxygen. "What happened to you was my fault." 

"Don't be daft, man. That was a bloody brilliant landing, considering the weight you had to carry. And me ankle will be good as new in no time." 

"You nearly died because of me," James snaps. 

Robbie's smile fades. "What are you talking about?" 

"You were barely conscious because of the smoke, so I don't think you could have been aware of how long you were up there before I arrived. Flying up to get you should have been the first thing I did after calling 999. Instead, I left you to breathe poison while I ran around looking for a fucking _ladder_ because I forgot about my wings." 

"Forgot?" 

"Not forgot that I had them; forgot that they were good for anything other than amusement—or ornament." _Mortmaigne's angel._

"James." Robbie's quiet voice draws his attention immediately. "James, I can't accept your apology." He reaches out to clasp James's shaking hands in his own solid ones. "I can't, because you've done absolutely nothing to apologise for. You saved my life, man. D'ye think I care if it took you five minutes or ten to figure out how to do it?" 

"Five minutes might have spared you a night in hospital with a tube down your throat. Fifteen might—" _Might have been too long._

"You can't think like that," Robbie insists. "Ifs and mights and maybes can drive you mad. I know. After Val—" He can't finish the sentence, but he doesn't have to. 

"This isn't speculation or guesswork. It's simple facts. The longer you were trapped in the smoke, the more danger you were in. And you were there too long because of me. Because of my wilful blindness." He pulls his hands free; he doesn't deserve Robbie's comfort. "All these years, I haven't just been binding my wings, but my mind. Trying to ignore who and what I was." 

"You were a lad protecting yourself," Robbie says firmly. 

"I'm an adult now. I can't let old fears—or even new ones—keep me from doing the right thing." 

Robbie leans forward, gaze never wavering. "True, but you're being too hard on yourself . You need some perspective, some... balance." 

" _That's_ what Jenna meant!" It's not until he sees Robbie blink that James realises he said it aloud. 

"I assume that was in a dream, and you haven't been holding seances while I was in hospital." 

"No seances, no ouija boards," James confirms. "Just a very strange dream." 

"Tell me." 

James tells him everything: the maze, the Pythia's chamber, the flaming tower. 

"Seems as though you've got some thinking to do about flying and how you feel about it," Robbie says. "Mary Poppins, eh? Our Lyn used to read the books. I didn't like the film much—too American." His eyes, calm as a summer sky, are fixed on James. "Any road, I don't need a magical brolly. I've got the cleverest bagman in all of Britain looking out for me... even if he is a bit of a mother hen." 

James feels heat flood across his face. How did he get to be so lucky, to have Robbie Lewis in his life, not just as a boss and mentor, but as a friend? And what would he have done if he'd lost him yesterday? He shudders. 

"C'mere," Robbie says firmly. He takes two steps forward and encircles James's shoulders in a hug. 

James freezes. It's not that he minds the physical contact—anything but—he's just not sure what to do. 

"Easy, lad. Let go. Just let go," Robbie murmurs. 

And he does. With legs braced, James leans forward, letting his head rest on Robbie's shoulder. Hesitantly, he wraps his arms around the other man's middle, feeling his solidity and warmth. How did Robbie know this was what he needed, when James himself didn't know? Of course, Robbie has more experience with physical affection, and not just in childhood. He's been a husband and a father. Perhaps as a young man he hugged his teammates after winning a match. 

James tries and fails to remember when he was last hugged. Part of him thinks that he ought to be embarrassed, clinging to his governor like a child. No, not his governor just now—his friend Robbie. His best mate. He lets himself savour the contact for a moment longer, then pulls slowly away. He wonders if he ought to say 'thank you', but he can't speak. 

Robbie turns and slowly makes his way to the sofa. "No word yet on Bingham, I suppose?" 

The change of topic is a blatant act of kindness on Robbie's part. He knows perfectly well that if there'd been even a hint of news, James would have told him the instant he'd walked into the hospital room. "Nothing. This could drag out for months—assuming that he hasn't somehow managed to sneak out of the country." 

"Nah, it won't be that long. I'm not any kind of oracle, but here's a prediction: he'll make a mistake, and sooner rather than later. Harry Bingham may be clever at fraud, but he's had no experience at flying under the radar. One of these days he'll be spotted on CCTV, or he'll use a cashpoint, or get pulled over for a traffic stop. Within a week, two at the most." 

* * *

It takes only five days. On Thursday morning, Lewis receives a phone call. The tone in which he says "Is that so?" tells James that it's good news. The rest of the conversation—the half that he can hear—is made up of one-word questions, grunts and a few chuckles. 

When Lewis hangs up, James gives him a carefully contrived look of bland inquiry. "A development?" 

"You might say that. That was Kent Police. Seems they've got our man Harry in a cell in Margate." 

"Really? What mistake did he make?" 

Lewis summarises what he was told. Bingham was staying with a former girlfriend in a holiday cottage in Margate. They'd gone to a local pub for karaoke night, and Harry got into an argument with the barman. He claimed to have given the man twenty pounds, but only got back change for ten. "One of the punters was an off-duty constable waiting for his turn at the microphone. When he heard the fuss, he stepped in. Harry apologised, said he'd made a mistake, but PC Pavarotti was having none of it. He asked to see some identification, and Harry tried to do a runner." 

James shakes his head. "That was very ill-advised." 

"Long story short: a couple of the lads grabbed him before he could reach the door, and he was taken down to Margate nick, where they checked his name in the PNC and discovered that he was very much wanted here in Oxford." Lewis rises from his desk. "I'm going to give Innocent the good news. You can organise transport—get a couple of uniforms to drive down to Kent and bring our wandering boy home." 

It's a little past teatime when Harry Bingham is finally inside an interview room at the Oxford nick. He denies everything at first. There's no crime in taking a holiday, is there? He has no idea who killed Jenna. He never laid a finger on the girl. Why would he? 

"Because she was going to report you for all kinds of fraudulent practices," James replies. 

"Bollocks! You can't prove any such thing." 

"The documents you hid in your aunt's tower say different," Lewis counters. 

Harry turns as red as beetroot. "The mad old bat—I should never have trusted her!" After that, it doesn't take long before they have a full confession. 

It's a minor detail, but James wants to know. "Jenna was wearing a gold locket. If you wanted her death to look like a mugging, why didn't you take the locket?" 

Harry looks down at the dull grey surface of the table. "She wore it all the time... I reckoned her family would want it." Suddenly, his chin juts up and he glares at the two detectives. "I'm not a thief!" he insists. They don't reply. What could they possibly say? 

"Right, we're done here." Lewis strides out of the room, James at his heels. 

It's over. There's a lot of work to follow, as always. The Brimleys will need to be told that their daughter's killer is behind bars. There will be follow-up queries, and more paperwork than James cares to think about, but... it's over. 

* * *

James is hunched over his computer, filling out yet another form, when he hears, "Erm... 'scuse me, sir?" He recognises Hooper's voice. At least five seconds go by before he remembers that Lewis is in the Chief Super's office. 

He looks up. "Yes, Hooper?" 

There's a barely-restrained smile on the DC's face that James has been seeing since Monday, when he returned to work. Lewis, who notices everything, had quickly noticed both the smile and James's reaction to it. "Hooper doesn't mean any harm," he'd said. 

"He looks at me as if..." _As if I were a special treat he'd found in his Christmas stocking_. He can't say the words aloud. 

"He's just chuffed to be in on such a big secret. Give him some time to adjust. Mind, if he does or says anything disrespectful—" 

"I'll deal with it." Nothing inappropriate has happened in the past three days. And here the man is again, smiling that slightly smug, slightly proprietary smile. "Yes?" 

Hooper twists his hands around each other. "Got a question for you, Sarge." He glances over his shoulder, and lowers his voice to just above a whisper. "About... bird-watching." 

_God give me patience._ "What is it?" 

"It's not exactly a question, sir. More like a suggestion." James nods permission, and Hooper continues, "I've been thinking..." 

* * *

It's half seven when they finish the most urgent paperwork. The rest can wait until tomorrow, Robbie decrees. "Back to mine for takeaway?" 

James looks up from the computer and gingerly stretches his back. "God, yes." 

Less than twenty minutes later James sets the carrier bags on the kitchen table. Robbie gets out knives and forks, then rummages in the fridge for a couple of bottles of beer. "Sit down and eat, man. No need to wait for me." 

"In a minute," James replies. He locates the grey t-shirt that Robbie gave him last week, then quickly strips off jacket, shirt and binder. He's still achy and stiff from the hours hunched over a keyboard, so he takes a moment to stretch properly, arching his back and fully extending his wings. 

"You all right?" Robbie calls from the kitchen. 

"Yeah. Just a bit stiff." 

"You didn't strain something when you were carrying me, did you?" 

"I didn't. I promise," James adds, seeing Robbie studying him from beneath raised brows. "Just an ordinary backache. If you want to make amends, you can resolve to assign me fewer reports to write." 

"Hah bloody hah," Robbie replies. "Just because you saved my life doesn't mean you get to escape your proper duties, Sergeant." 

"Duly noted, sir," James says dryly. He pulls on the t-shirt and returns to the table. 

After the meal, when only trace evidence remains in the cardboard containers, James stretches again, waggling his half-folded wings with lazy contentment. "That was good. Erm... Robbie? I wonder if I may ask a favour?" Robbie nods, inviting him to continue. "It was actually Hooper's idea, believe it or not..." 

* * *

He dreams again that night. 

_"Hello, James." She's sitting on top of her desk in a complicated yoga position. No Greek robes this time, nor flowered skirt set, but a sleeveless top and loose-fitting trousers in a bright spring green that matches her wristwatch._

_"Hello, Jenna." He hesitates. "We caught Bingham, and he's confessed. The trial won't be for a few months yet, but we've got him. I just thought you might like to know."_

_She smiles at him. "Thank you... though I already know."_

_"Because you've been... watching?"_

_"Because I'm you—well, part of you. I'm a manifestation of your unconscious mind, so of course I know what you know." She grasps her left ankle and tugs, lifting it up until it's hooked behind her neck._

_"Are you sure you're me? Because there's no way in hell I could do that."_

_Jenna sighs. "Must you be so logical, even when you're dreaming? We can debate substance, essence, and being, if you like. I'm an aspect of you. You could do this—" She lifts the other leg now. "—if you practiced."_

_"I really doubt that."_

* * *

"We're nearly there, sirs." 

James thinks this may be one of the maddest things he's ever done. Driving into the Oxfordshire countryside at half six in the bloody morning to go flying—with DI Lewis and DC Hooper (Hooper!) as his lookouts. 

Robbie had discussed Hooper with him privately. "You don't have to him come along if you don't want to. He's seen you fly once. That's enough." 

It's not a matter of what James wants, but of doing the right thing. Hooper came to him, freely offering to share his countryman's knowledge of the various places where one might go 'bird-watching' undisturbed. He hadn't asked to accompany James, hadn't even hinted, but simply wrote out detailed directions to the abandoned quarry that he promised was 'behind the back o' nowhere, and as empty as a pauper's pocket'. Somehow, it seemed only fair to suggest that Hooper show them the way, and stand guard with Lewis during James's first flight. 

Standing at the edge of the crater, he can see that the quarry is everything that Hooper claimed. It's at the end of a several long and unmarked country lanes. The mining company took away the sheds and trailers that might have tempted vagrants, drug-users, or amorous youths. More importantly, they dynamited the access lanes that used to spiral down the edges of the pit. 

It's easy enough for them to pass through the bright orange snow fencing that encircles the rim. It's only there as a warning. "Deeper than I expected," Robbie comments. They all look down. The bottom of the quarry is covered with water that reflects the bright blue September sky. "Good job they blew up the path. I'd hate to think of any kids going down there." 

Hopper nods emphatically. "There's been drownings in quarries that weren't closed off. People diving and breaking their heads on hidden rocks. You want to stay away from the water, Sarge. Even in summer, it's cold enough to freeze your bollocks off." 

"I'll... erm... bear that in mind," James replies. He doesn't dare look at Robbie for fear they'll both burst out laughing. Instead, he pulls off his hoodie, then his t-shirt and binder. He steps away from the other two men before extending his wings. Behind him, he can hear the sounds of a whispered conversation, but not the actual words. They're talking about him, he knows. _No matter._ He lifts his wings into a launch position, feeling the air currents around him. The quarry doesn't have the lovely updrafts he enjoyed on Araney. He'll have to work harder to fly here, but that's all right. 

_"What's it like to fly?" Jenna asks._

_"Why are you asking if you're a manifestation of my unconscious? You should know this already."_

_She pulls a face. "Tosser. Maybe I like to talk to myself. Besides, I can't fly."_

_"But if you're me..."_

_"Part of you," she corrects. "But not the part that can fly."_

_He's suddenly sad for her, for the Jenna-not-Jenna who can't fly, and for Robbie and all those who can never know what it's like. "Flying?" He pauses to select the right word. "It's glorious."_

And so it is.

THE END


End file.
